


for we who fall

by spectreshepard



Series: our fated share [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Spoilers, but especially the good kind where sigurd gets some sense knocked into him, eivor is just functional, endgame into postgame, featuring the entire host of ravensthorpe at some point but tagging them defeats the entire purpose, i have no idea how the isu/sages work so this is completely my own made up interpretation, i mean slow burn as in i attempted slow burn but vili/eivor might have had different ideas, vili is a functional disaster, we were robbed of old friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreshepard/pseuds/spectreshepard
Summary: Eivor holds the fated threads of many in his bloodied hands, but for every alliance he might build and every life he might save, it will not be enough to undo what he has lost. Echoes of forgotten lives have shown him that fate cannot be bent or broken, it cannot be twisted or torn - it simply is. Some threads lead to tangles of the heart, betrayal looming beyond a veil Eivor cannot pierce. Others lead to long-awaited reunions, and the building of a future that once existed only in a dream.Can Eivor find peace in knowing that he cannot pick and choose from the threads the Nornir spin?
Relationships: Eivor/Vili Hemmingson
Series: our fated share [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199177
Comments: 105
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vili/eivor brainrot found me immediately after i finished my runthrough of ac:valhalla, so here we are, dying on main. we were totally robbed of a longterm romance with more chemistry than me and all my metaphors, so i'm here to do a patch job of fixing it up. it'll contain obvious endgame spoilers from here on out, so be warned! hopefully it floats some people's boats while we sit here twiddling our thumbs in wait for valhalla content.

The northern chill in the air seeps away as the sun sinks in the west, illuminating the last of Snotinghamscire's snow-capped peaks before they disappear into cold, purple streaked darkness. It's a quiet departure from a victorious end to a life, Eivor thinks to himself, looking down from the mountains to the worn faces of his crew. All are happily tired from the week of drinking and mourning in Hemming Jarl's name, a lull in the usual rhythm of raids and ruin that the Raven Clan have wrought upon nearly all of England, and now they face a sobering trip back south to recover. They number greater than they arrived too, Eivor notes with a glimmer of satisfaction. He seeks out the man in question and finds Vili sitting in silent contemplation at the front of the longship, Eivor perched above him on the prow-shelf overseeing the long road home.

Home, to Ravensthorpe. 

Vili looks up then, as if he might have heard Eivor's thought spoken on the wind. He looks to Eivor with a smile that grows, slow and steady, but sincere. Eivor returns his own, a warmth blooming deep within his chest at the notion of returning home with his best friend, after so long. 

Of course, it's more than that. A lot more. But Eivor guards his heart as vigilantly as he guards his people, and now is not the time to reveal it. A familiar tension returns to his jaw when his smile grows strained under thoughts of what else it might mean.  _ Not now, drengr. _ Eivor straightens his shoulders and pulls his gaze from Vili, back to the horizon. He tightens his grip on the rope wrapped about the prow, shifts his weight to his other leg, and turns his thoughts to the swan-road, away from Vili, and away from the years of what-ifs that lie in wait. 

* * *

As the longship rocks against the mooring, Eivor steps out onto Ravensthorpe’s dock, mid-way through a list of orders. "...and someone bring the supplies to Winfrith, we'll start work on the cattle fence come morn." He gestures to the north-west of the settlement, where Winfrith's homestead lies behind the Bureau. Seeing Sunniva and Hrefna take up some crates, he gives them a grateful nod before he turns to the others with open arms and a bright smile. 

"Rest, my friends, we have much to celebrate tonight." A rowdy cheer lights up the crew, and the hum of tired victory settles upon them all as they scatter from the dock, leaving only Vili standing alone, gazing up to the longhouse in silence. Eivor watches him for a moment, wondering what must be going through his mind. He wants to know everything, every worry, every thought, every hope -- too many things, all at once, and Eivor slows his own rambling reflections with a sharp exhale. He walks back along the dock, only a few steps to Vili, and nudges his arm with a grin.

"Lost already, arse-stick?" 

Vili huffs, half laughing, half sighing. Then a heavy weight falls over Eivor as Vili hooks an arm around his shoulders, and Eivor glances up at him, eyebrow raised.

"Happy, Eivor," Vili corrects him with a bright smile, "I'm sending my thanks to the gods for bringing me here."

"And not me?" Eivor rumbles, turning to eye the path ahead while he begins to walk them up the dock. He's half expecting Vili to let go, but as soon as Vili begins to follow with his arm still slung around him, Eivor feels that honey-sweet warmth begin to bloom between his ribs again. This would not be easy.

"Well, I can thank the gods for you too, if you like--" Vili responds easily, shaking Eivor's shoulders as he laughs, loud and boisterous, his usual self. Eivor's elbow finds Vili's ribs, earning a grunt and a smug smile from the taller man who turns to glance at him, gaze defiant.

"You know what I mean, Vili." Eivor huffs. Vili's silent for a moment, a moment in which Eivor almost regrets the jab he gave and his eyes turn to Vili, concerned. Vili seems lost in thought again. Eivor frowns, and keeps them walking, sucking in a breath as he allows himself to wrap an arm around Vili, hand clenched in the dark fabric of Vili's cloak. They walk in silence up from the dock, the setting sun casting a soft light across the lush green walkways as the smell of forge-smoke and oil drifts ever closer from Gunnar's forge. The silence drags on for an age, until Eivor's opened his mouth to say something again just to break it up - but Vili beats him to it.

"I know, I know," Vili says softly, and Eivor's words turn to dust upon his tongue. He drops his gaze, concern fading as Vili seems to relax, but something else coils up and takes its place deep in his chest. He isn't expecting to hear anything else, but a few more shared footsteps pass before Eivor catches something so quiet, he's unsure if it was ever spoken. "I have a lot to thank you for." 

Oh. That was--

"Eivor!" Gunnar booms, and Eivor's attention is suddenly torn from Vili to find the aging smith propped up against his doorway, burly arms folded tight across his chest as he waits for Eivor to approach. And Eivor does, though his feet feel like lead and his heart is hammering in his chest as the echo of Vili's words sit in his mind, like the brightest point of light in a northern sky, one that he is absolutely unable to tear himself away from.

Somehow, someway, he makes it to Gunnar, hands fumbling uselessly at his sides now that he isn't holding onto Vili. "Gunnar, you will have some new supplies soon, my friend--"

The smith waves him off, pushing himself off the doorframe with a laugh. "Come now, Eivor! You have new friends, I see. Though, this one looks familiar." Gunnar nods his head towards Vili, beckoning him over with a wave of his arm. Vili strides over with his usual poise, chin lifted, eyes bright and defiant, and a faint smile ever threatening at the curve of his mouth.

"You may have met in passing, Gunnar," Eivor watches Vili walk over, "Vili Hemmingson. My oldest friend, and our newest raider."

"Ah, the name rings a clear, clear bell," Gunnar beams, stretching out his hand, "A troublesome one! I know the name from our dear Eivor's stories, and if you have been fast friends for so long, no doubt I have seen you passing through Fornburg."

Vili grasps Gunnar's arm firmly and gives him a shake. "Eivor speaks of me, does he?"

"Vili..." Eivor sighs.

"Often, and proudly. It is good to see friends reunited." Gunnar laughs, releasing Vili's arm. "A new raider in our midst is nothing to turn our noses up at either, boy. You come to me for your arms and armour, alright?"

Eivor rests a hand on the axe at his belt, smiling faintly. "He's the best in Mercia, I say. No sharper blade have I found yet other than the ones I entrust to him," Eivor juts his chin towards the row of axes hung along the forge wall, shining and sharp in the dusklight, "Though I can't say the same for his mind..."

"Ah, Eivor! Wound me less with your words and more with your blade. That will need looking at soon." Gunnar points out the axe slung at Eivor’s side, rounding the workbench as though he means to start up his forge, and Eivor shakes his head, holding a hand out to stop him.

"Tomorrow, Gunnar. We feast tonight, it's been too long." He tells him, though he pats the head of his axe, acknowledging the thinly veiled order. Gunnar is only looking out for him, always has done since that night in Heillboer. Eivor can hardly fault that. 

"Well, I look forward to hearing your tales later, Gunnar. You sound like you have plenty, both glorious and horribly embarrassing." Vili rescues the conversation, looking between the two of them, a hand coming to rest on Eivor's shoulder as his intentions become clear. Eivor half-expected this, but seeing it unfold before him brings a tired smile to his face. Of course Vili would find a way to fit right in, to dig up the dirt where he could so that he might needle Eivor with it later. He does that, and he does it easily. Endlessly charming, and unfortunately too bullheaded to be anything else. 

Eivor enjoys it more than he'll ever admit.

"I will find you in the longhouse later, Vili, have no fear.” Gunnar chuckles, the clatter of metal accompanying his words as he finishes tidying up for the evening. “Gods, I haven't seen such lightness to you since we arrived, Eivor." 

Eivor's ears burn, and he can feel his eyes go wide even as he tries to keep his composure, a hand absently reaching to start shoving Vili on his way before Gunnar's mouth runs Eivor into an early grave. 

"It’s the promise of a warm bed, Gunnar, I have gotten used to the comforts of home. I have to show Vili around-- I'll see you later, friend." Eivor half-mumbles, stepping around Vili as he nudges him gently to keep walking. 

"See you later, Gunnar." Vili echoes Eivor's statement, and Eivor can feel his heavy footsteps falling in behind him. He prays his ears have stopped burning by the time Vili catches up, but he doesn't risk looking his way as he sets his sights on the longhouse. 

"Are we in a rush?" Vili teases. Eivor can hear the tremor of hidden laughter in his words. 

_ "I _ am. The sooner I get you introduced, the sooner I can drink my weight in mead." Eivor throws over his shoulder, only half joking. Vili snorts, and Eivor hears the quickening of footsteps a second later, but no words follow. It's an easy silence to slip into this time. As they walk, Eivor's gaze drifts to Vili on occasion, always finding him staring off at something new with awe-filled eyes and mouth agape. It's amusing, as much as it is endearing. At least, it is until Vili catches him looking, and Eivor has to stumble onto something like he was meant to say it all along.

"I- you'll start catching flies if you keep that up." 

Vili closes his mouth, and then gives Eivor another bright grin. Eivor watches how it twists the scar on his lip ever so slightly, and forgets whatever else he had left to say.

"I'm admiring the scenery, wolf-kissed," Vili tells him, dark blue eyes left shadowed in the setting sun. Ocean-blue and just as deep, but they linger too long on Eivor, leaving him drowning in things he cannot say. He looks away, back to the longhouse.

"And now you are a skald too." Eivor's lips pull into a thin smile as he makes his way to the longhouse doors, the smell of woodsmoke drifting out towards them. A roaring hearth and a comfortable bed are things to look forward to tonight, Eivor reminds himself, and the creeping chill of careless thought can be left at the door. Vili would find a home here and not in Eivor, their night at Hemthorpe had said as much. Eivor must learn to live with that.

Regardless, the warmth of the longhouse beckons as the sun begins to dip below the horizon behind them. 

"Come on. You should say hello to Randvi before I set you free to cause trouble." Eivor says to Vili as they near the longhouse doors. Stepping in, Eivor finds his thoughts go quiet at long last, and his feet take him through the hall, past Sigurd's empty throne, and right into the vestibule where Randvi spends her hours looking over her maps. Truth be told, it's a role that Eivor sees no enjoyment in, but Randvi seems to delight in the quiet intricacies of diplomacy and to see her work unfold in tangible form upon her maps must feel every bit the victory. Just with less blood and gore than Eivor's used to. 

_ "Hej _ , Eivor, it is good to see you--" Randvi looks up as she always does, hearing Eivor's steps. She pauses when she sees Vili in Eivor's wake, and Eivor watches as her expression subtly changes from her usual soft neutral to something sharper, a curiosity alight in her eyes. Eivor supposes she wasn't expecting him to bring the jarl's son home. He lifts his head towards her, smiling a little smugly. Half-turning to Vili as he walks in, he gestures for the man to follow - though he hardly needs to, Vili's only two steps behind. As always, when he's with Eivor. 

"Randvi, I bring fair tidings from Snotinghamscire. Another alliance secured." Eivor says, rounding the table as he speaks. A hand goes to drift along the map, a pointer finger settling on the lined borders of the shire in question. He taps the paper twice, right over the crude mark of Hemthorpe. He lingers there for a moment as a passing shadow clouds his thoughts. "Hemming Jarl has passed on. We saw him to Odin's hall as best as we could, and I have faith that Trygve will shoulder the burdens of a jarl as well as Hemming did." 

"That is sad news," Randvi hums softly, deftly reaching for a raven marker to place atop the map, "I hope he passed well."

"He did," Vili interjects, and Eivor glances up at the sound of his voice, shaped by a lingering grief, "We gave him a pyre fit for the gods. I have no doubt Odin found him well." 

"Good." Randvi smiles his way with a curt nod of her head. "And Trygve rules as jarl? That is interesting." 

A pointed statement, but Eivor understands the curiosity. He'd seen it throughout his time up north, the thinly veiled expectations, the constant needling directed at Vili to pursue a life he had no interest in. He'd made that clear to Eivor as soon as he'd arrived, though Eivor always knew. To bring him home to Ravensthorpe, which - for all its success and prosperity - is built upon the backs of people guided by duty and little else, would undoubtedly bring its own questions. And Randvi's mind is far more tuned into the unforgiving twists of diplomacy than most, Eivor knows. 

"Necessary, I think," Vili's smile turns strained under the dying light, "I would make a terrible jarl." 

Eivor interrupts, pushing himself away from the table. "The people are happy, Vili's happy, we have an alliance; that is good enough for me." 

"Of course, Eivor. You have done well." Randvi sets the raven figurine down gently, before her hands return behind her back, clasped together. "And Vili is welcome here. Has Eivor shown you around?" 

The tension that had been settling upon Vili's shoulders like fresh snow melts away as the topic drifts into less frigid waters, and Eivor prepares himself for the tirade. 

"He  _ insists  _ on rushing me through proper introductions so that he can make a fool of himself at the feast," Vili declares, "Poor leadership, if you ask me."

"I wasn't done, but you know, I think I will just let you introduce yourself later on when you're half a barrel of mead deep and you can't remember your own name." Eivor remarks, idly flipping over a piece of blank parchment that Randvi must have left on the table. He looks up, a clear challenge in his eyes as he regards Vili, who smiles defiantly back at him. Between them, Randvi's smile becomes too great to hide, and she turns her attention back to the map before her, hands planted on the table.

"I thought I heard rumours of a feast tonight, Eivor. You should take some time to rest, and..." Randvi pauses, and Eivor watches her gaze drift uncertainly towards Vili. A silent question. 

"Speak freely. I trust him." Eivor waves a hand for her to continue. 

Nodding, Randvi lets out a sharp exhale. "Sigurd would like to speak with you. He seems... agitated."

Whatever warmth the comforts of home have granted him in the short while he's stood here is immediately frozen over with a quiet and unspoken fear. Eivor manages a jerky nod, hands completely still at his sides as he thinks on what to do. 

"Where is he?" Eivor asks after a moment. His words come out unexpectedly hoarse, and he shakes his head, clearing his throat. He doesn't quite look at either Vili or Randvi.

"He went for a walk shortly before you arrived. I doubt he expects you to join him, I just thought a warning would be appreciated." Randvi treads carefully now, Eivor can hear it in her voice. Each word chosen and placed with calming precision. 

Letting out a slow exhale, Eivor begins to walk towards the door where Vili is leaning against the frame, silent and observing. He looks up at him in passing, even as he speaks to Randvi. "Thank you, Randvi. I'll find him when he returns." 

It's a long and silent walk out of the longhouse, and Eivor isn't sure where he's leading Vili this time. He's just trying to leave this cloud that clings to him, building with all the energy of a brewing storm he can't outrun. Sigurd's presence in the settlement has been both a blessing and a curse felt by all, not just Eivor, and he would do anything to make it not so. He would storm Asgard itself to unwind the Nornir's careful threads if it meant Sigurd's fate was a happier one. 

But he is human, despite his dizzying experiences through Valka's elixirs and the looming presence of the One-Eyed as he cuts his bloody way through England's infestation of the Order. He is  _ only  _ human. To be anything else, to  _ consider  _ anything else would bring down the full force of lofty expectations on his already aching shoulders -- if he is more than what he is, he must do more for everyone else. He doesn’t see how he can. It’s this quiet fear that makes him worry so deeply for Sigurd. He remains unbroken, but Eivor can see how his spine bows and his shoulders are buckling beneath the crippling weight of grander ambitions.

"Eivor?" He hears Vili speak somewhere next to him, and suddenly his thoughts clarify into a single point: Vili is here, if not for good then for a long, long while. Everything else gets swept away, and for that, Eivor is glad. 

"Hm?" Eivor turns to him, eyebrows raised. 

"You took a walk through the nine realms for a moment. Are you well?" Vili's brow is furrowed, clear concern in his gaze. When Eivor doesn't respond, Vili's frown deepens. "There is something wrong, Eivor... can you tell me? You didn't speak of Sigurd when you came to the north." 

Eivor nods in acknowledgement. He didn't. Purposefully so - the wounds of Suthsexe and its aftermath are still raw, even now, and he wanted to focus on happier things. Better things, like Vili, and Eivor doesn't bother trying to hide the softness to his glance, a quirk to his lip falling just short of a smile. 

"There is a lot to speak of, and some of it is not mine to share." Eivor explains wearily, the mere thought of it wringing him out like a fraying bowstring. He has plucked this worry too many times.

"That's never stopped you before, you chicken  _ draugr _ . Always the first to knock on my door with a boast or a challenge,  _ especially  _ in defiance of another." Vili's attempt to lift the weight hanging from his shoulders doesn't go unappreciated, but Eivor isn't in the mood to follow. He hangs his head, braid falling down over his shoulder, and stares at the ground as they walk. He seems to be leading them back to the docks again. To the barracks, maybe - if Vili wants to rest, now would be the time. 

"That look does not suit you, Eivor." Vili sighs, and a familiar arm wraps around Eivor's shoulders again. The stuttering warmth in Eivor’s chest takes hold, though it's been dampened by the lingering dread he feels. "Let me shoulder some of it, or take your mind off it."

Eivor considers the options. Telling Vili would ease some of the burden, he has no doubt of that. But he wonders if that would taint his vision of Sigurd beyond repair, and Eivor wants that even less. Sigurd is still a man to be respected, to be upheld as the jarl of this clan, a clan that Vili now belongs to. To tell Vili that in as many words would cement some seed of doubt in his mind that Sigurd is not fit to rule, and as much as Eivor might agree with that in his heart of hearts, he would never say it. 

The other option, to let Vili take his mind off it... He would enjoy that. He would enjoy that too much, if Vili was amenable to the thoughts that Eivor carries in his mind, constantly simmering below the tumult of responsibility. Wishing he could speak them out loud, Eivor leans into Vili's hold, his own arm finding its way to curl a fist in Vili's cloak again. Not too close, not too direct - a safe distance. Or at least, Eivor thinks so, until he feels Vili stiffen, and he's almost immediately trying to pull his arm away. Vili turns, and then his arms are gripping Eivor's shoulders, and Eivor's forced to meet him head-on, eye to eye, some measure of feeling laid bare between them. It catches Eivor off-guard completely, with not enough time to even think about putting on a brave face. 

But it's Vili. Eivor's never had to do that for him. Why must he start now? 

"I am your friend, Eivor. You can speak your mind with me, can't you?" Vili asks, eyes searching. Eivor can't hide from that. He reaches up to hold Vili's forearms, head bowed as he nods. 

"My  _ greatest  _ friend," Eivor corrects gently, "But I hold my brother's troubles close to heart because he trusts me. I won't betray that trust, even to you. Maybe one day, maybe soon, I can speak of it, but until then..." He shakes his head, the dismissal falling silent. He feels awful, rejecting Vili's offer so soundly, but Eivor can't test his strained relationship with Sigurd any further.

"Alright. Then I'll take your mind off it." Vili's smile is bright, even in the dusklight gloom that's growing around them. He pats the side of Eivor's face, and then releases him from his hold. Eivor mourns the sudden lack of warmth, but he feels himself breathing easier in Vili's presence. “Tell me where to leave my things, and then I’d like to explore my home some more -- with you.” 

Eivor blinks, surprised at the request and the sudden turn of conversation. He looks to the longship behind them, moored and empty. The dock itself is quiet, though Eivor can hear shouts drifting from the barracks. 

“I didn’t expect you to be joining us,” Eivor frowns, almost embarrassed, “But we have room, and supplies. It won’t take us long to put up a house, maybe over the bridge from the l--”

“A house? Eivor, the barracks are right here!” Vili laughs, disbelief written all over his expression. Eivor bumps his knuckles against Vili’s shoulder with a snort, a smile cracking through his sombre mood.

“If I had my way, I wouldn’t put you in the barracks.” Eivor says without thinking, and he almost immediately regrets his choice of wording when he sees Vili’s smile turn into a smirk, eyes lighting up at Eivor’s slip. 

“Oh?” Vili cocks his head, looking down at Eivor. He folds his arms across his broad chest, and Eivor stares defiantly up at him, pointedly ignoring how big and imposing Vili now looks. “Where would you put me then, Eivor?” 

All thoughts of having Vili in the longhouse get abandoned to the wayside as an old rivalry resurfaces with renewed vigour.

“You seem to be right at home in a pig-sty, arse-stick. Remember Stavanger?” Eivor huffs, baring teeth in a smug grin. 

“Let’s not pretend you fared any better that night, Eivor.” Vili laughs out loud, and Eivor is just glad the distraction seems to have worked. He nudges Vili again, this time to get him moving towards the barracks. They make their way down amidst mindless recollection of kinder days, an easy rapport that comes to Eivor like breathing, something so natural and vital for his existence that he begins to wonder how he ever lived without it. 

He’s not given long to dwell on those thoughts. They are barely done putting Vili’s things aside in the security of the barracks when Eivor hears the heavy thud of footsteps on the creaking wood outside. A moment later, Sigurd’s looming form appears in the doorway, eyes sharp as ice as they hone in on Eivor, who feels the chill go right through him.

“Sigurd?” Eivor pauses midway through handing Vili his last small crate of belongings. Sigurd’s eyes narrow over Vili’s form, as though he’s quietly assessing the new arrival. A thin smile stretches across Sigurd’s face, a faint glimmer of recognition behind his intense gaze.

“A familiar face in our midst.” He says, in that strange, sombre tune he’s spoken in ever since returning. Eivor swallows, deeply uncertain about where this is going. 

“Sigurd, it has been a while.” Vili responds easily, and Eivor feels the warmth of Vili’s hands over his own for the briefest of moments as he takes the crate from him. It’s enough to steady him, to keep the worst of his thoughts at bay. Eivor turns to Sigurd, unencumbered by the crate, and draws his attention back, away from Vili.

“Brother, you look well,” Eivor forces his words out, and he doesn’t miss the slight flinch to Sigurd’s gaze as he does, “Did you need me? Randvi said--”

“Eivor! Yes, it is time. Come with me.” Sigurd doesn’t give Vili a second glance, beckoning Eivor to follow. Eivor shoots Vili a look, an apology already on his lips before Vili just smiles and gives him a nod.

“I will find you later, Eivor. Go.” 

Eivor lingers on Vili for a moment more, drawing what warmth he can from the man’s presence before he has to face Sigurd’s endless chill. He turns on his heel, and begins to walk towards Sigurd, following in his brother’s footsteps as he’s always done, but this time it is not with the promise of a brighter future beyond. A dark cloud hangs on the horizon, a storm brewing in its depths, and Eivor wonders if it is finally time to face it.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can only apologise for a monster chapter but hooo boy we got some setting up to do [cracks knuckles] and yes i do have a giant soft spot for gunnar okay

“Eivor. The time has come.” Sigurd announces, no word of explanation as he turns to face Eivor, having led him on a long and uncomfortably silent walk back to the longhouse. They sit now in the room he shares with Randvi, though this room has grown cold and barren of late, left to claim dust and memory as its main inhabitants. Randvi spends less of her time here with each passing day, Eivor has noticed, and Sigurd… well. Sigurd has not been the same for a long time. No fire roars here in this room, only failing candles that send drifting smoke trails up and out of reach. Even the way Sigurd sits, perched on the edge of the bed, is awkward and stilted, despite the confidence his words carry. It makes Eivor shift uncomfortably, not quite wanting to step all the way in. He leans against the doorway, just inside and out of Randvi’s sight, but definitely not out of earshot.

“What?” Eivor frowns at Sigurd. He’s looking at him like he should know, but Eivor can’t begin to pull even the thinnest thread from such a cryptic offering. Sigurd’s bright expression turns in an instant from a pleasant glow to a simmering rage, brow furrowing, eyes growing icy and cold again as he stands to close the distance. 

“Our time.” He says, stepping towards Eivor, hand outstretched. Eivor glances briefly at the space where his other arm should be, and images of a bloodied chair and dirty metal stakes come to mind. A faint smell of acrid smoke finds its way to Eivor in the second before he pulls his mind back to Sigurd standing in front of him. 

Still, he speaks no clearer. Eivor looks up at him now, the way he always has to. He blinks, thinking about keeping his breathing steady, and makes his words as plain as possible.

“Our time for _what_ , Sigurd?” 

As quiet and simple as those words are, it is still a question that seems to rankle Sigurd further. His mouth quirks downwards as he almost growls, entirely filling the space in front of Eivor with his size. Eivor feels nothing but the sinking dread from earlier, biting back like a hungry wolf. 

“My final glory awaits.” Sigurd hisses, turning away from Eivor with his hand still held out like he’s waiting for applause. Some recognition. Eivor cannot begin to understand why, and this strange staging of expectation leaves Eivor feeling completely cast adrift from his brother’s thoughts, where before he might have known them before they ever left his lips. There’s something about Sigurd’s posture, his grandstanding and cryptic lines, the vague certainty of an idea that he refuses to explain, the crazed look to his eyes -- it twists this dread into something closer to fear, cold and sharp. What awaits Sigurd? A final glory? Eivor’s eyes narrow as he considers his brother, who has turned back to him again with an unreadable expression, his momentary ire forgotten. 

Forcing out a slow breath, Eivor folds his arms across his chest and stands upright, unable to quite look at Sigurd save for a brief glance as he turns his face away. He does not want to see the look on Sigurd’s face when he speaks again. “Your final glory… I fear to ask what that means.” 

“Do I not speak plainly?” Eivor hears Sigurd’s voice pitch with indignance, the sound drifting closer as he feels Sigurd’s footsteps follow suit. “My time in Midgard is done. I wish now to see the hall of my ancestors.” 

Eivor lets silence fall. 

It’s a hard thought to swallow, more so when Eivor breaks it down into its most base terms: his brother wishes to die. 

Sigurd, who had pulled him from the maw of wolves and the roar of flames as Heillboer fell around a child. Sigurd, who had shouldered Eivor through the mire of grief in the years that followed. Sigurd, who had pushed and pushed until Eivor walked free of the shackles that bound him to revenge for seventeen long, bloody years.

He wishes to leave this place, and Eivor too. Unless Sigurd expects Eivor to follow, and his skin prickles under a cold chill that trembles down his spine as the thought takes hold. Or perhaps Sigurd wishes for the killing blow to come from Eivor, in some twisted ending to the saga he has been imagining ever since they’d left Fornburg. Eivor’s gaze returns to Sigurd, aware that this silence has now stretched into an uncomfortable place, teetering on the edge of a blatant non-answer. 

Eivor takes hold of what little will he has left to speak, and swallows back his fear. His arms unfold, and he’s turning away, ready to abandon this idea before it even has a chance to take form. “If you wish to die, it will not be by my hand.”

“I do not speak of death, Eivor. I speak of life!” Sigurd’s voice follows him, stopping Eivor mid-turn. There’s a different edge to his words this time, something pleading with him to listen. Sigurd continues, “Life, and glory everlasting!”

Eivor waits for an explanation. Still, none follows. He closes his eyes, head bowed in something like defeat - if this is the heartbreak that comes with loyalty, Eivor wonders what he must ask of others. Of Vili. Surely, nothing so drastic as this? He would not test their will like this, not in a way that threatens to shatter the very bonds that brought them together. Despite himself, Eivor turns an ear to hear Sigurd out, remaining where he is, almost on his way out.

“I know I have been in a fog these last few weeks. I know I speak words you don’t fully understand.” Sigurd sounds the most normal he’s been in weeks in those few words alone. The faintest glimmer of hope threatens Eivor’s heart, like a needle waiting to break the ice. It’s enough to make Eivor turn, slowly, to face Sigurd again, and he finds his brother’s face staring back. There’s a softness back behind his eyes, a fondness. Eivor only hopes he isn’t imagining this. When Sigurd reaches out and closes the distance between them again, his hand going to Eivor’s arm, Eivor believes he is there. 

“But I only ask you trust me, once more. On my final voyage. Back to Norway, to wish my father farewell, and achieve my destiny.” Sigurd’s gaze is searching, hand holding just a little too tightly. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face, like a struggling warmth from a pale sun. 

Eivor’s just staring, too many thoughts racing through his mind to consider each one. He reaches up with his hand, dislodging Sigurd’s in the process, and rubs at his jaw a little too harshly, the gesture helping to dislodge some mind-fog. “Back to Norway? I need… I should speak with Randvi, and I need to make sure Vili has a place--” 

“If you must. I have heard there will be a feast tonight, in the name of our new friend and your… success in Snotinghamscire.” Sigurd interrupts, eyes narrowing just enough to give Eivor pause. “I do not expect your answer before tomorrow, Eivor. But it must be soon.” 

Eivor nods, almost without thinking. Of course he would follow Sigurd, no matter the trials that await. That has never been in doubt. Eivor just hopes there is something left of him to bring back home, that this final journey will be everything Sigurd needs to see that everything he’d asked for, everything that matters, is right here. If loyalty to the end is not enough for Sigurd, Eivor fears nothing else will be. 

“Tomorrow, brother.” Eivor promises. Sigurd relents at long last, giving Eivor a nod, and then he’s gone before Eivor can pretend that he’s anything like he used to be. 

* * *

_“Skål!”_

A cheer erupts through the longhouse, lit by roaring hearth and filled with rowdy song, woodsmoke drifting to the rafters as the night descends over Ravensthorpe. Eivor feels entirely at home as he strides through the hall, a full tankard in hand, and all thoughts of tomorrow and beyond are safely stowed away for the evening. He scans the hall briefly, catching sight of Randvi at the end of one of the tables deep in conversation with Tove. Behind them, Alvis plucks his way through a song that’s being drowned out eagerly by familiar faces from Eivor’s crew, and he spots Hytham among them, enjoying his strange new life. Eivor smiles to himself, pleased to see such camaraderie in unexpected places, and continues on his walk. 

Or he tries to, but a very solid and unexpected weight slams into him, spilling his mead across the floor as his tankard goes flying and he’s left holding up the bulk of a person.

“EIVOR--” Gunnar roars with laughter, already deep into his cups. Any mild annoyance Eivor might have felt suddenly dissipates, and he finds himself grinning as he shoves Gunnar back onto the bench to another roar of laughter from the gathered onlookers. 

“I am sure the floor appreciates my mead.” Eivor swipes the nearly-full mug sat in front of Gunnar, who claps him on the shoulder as he takes a seat next to the blacksmith. Gunnar returns to his test of strength, hand clasped with Ake, but he speaks freely to Eivor as though the contest requires no thought. Knowing Gunnar, Eivor judges that is probably not far from the truth.

“...and that is how I got roped into this contest, young wolf--” Gunnar’s rambling only starts making sense somewhere towards the end, and Eivor can only nod and take a desperate gulp of his drink to avoid saying anything. He continues to listen as Gunnar shows no sign of stopping, arm bulging as he forces Ake to concede a moment later, clasped fists slamming down onto the table to another ripple of roars. Eivor lifts his mug just before the impact, not willing to witness another spill of fine mead. Not while he’s this sober, at least.

“Where is your friend, Eivor? I have so many tales ready for him.” Gunnar slaps his palms on the table as Ake gets up to leave, and the crowd begins to disperse from around them now that their entertainment has finished. Eivor looks around, taking another long draw from his mug. He looks for that familiar purple cloak, the dark fur, any sign of a bright smile and wicked eyes. No sign of him. 

“He has probably found trouble already, Gunnar,” Eivor chuckles, “He will appear.” Turning back to Gunnar, he finds the blacksmith’s eyes on him, full of questions and yet none sound from his mouth. Eivor sets his mug on the table with a dull thud, meeting Gunnar’s level stare. After a few seconds, Gunnar cracks another grin.

“I think it’s you who is in trouble.” Gunnar’s gaze turns devilish, and Eivor can already feel the dull heat creeping up his face at the implications. 

“Leave it.” Eivor shakes his head, but something about Gunnar’s tone makes him fail completely at hiding a grin. He’s fond of the man, always has been. Before Heillboer, Gunnar had been a steadfast presence that Eivor used to hound out of boredom, and not once was he turned away. He’s always been curious - too curious, for some - but Gunnar encouraged it, sent it further afield in search of rock and creature so that Eivor might learn to build something from its very root, the same way Gunnar crafted from the ore. After Heillboer, Eivor knows he spent many nights tucked away in Gunnar’s forge, away from the pitying stares and unwanted attention of everyone who saw no child anymore, but a stain of honor that would one day disappear. Gunnar never asked twice, and he’d bare teeth to anyone who did. It was a promise of safety at a time Eivor had none outside of Sigurd, and he won’t forget it.

Feeling a nudge at his elbow, Eivor returns to the here and now, attention scattered. Next to him, Gunnar lets out another laugh, hearty and whole and not mocking in the least. Eivor feels reassured by that, in some small way.

“Your face, Eivor, it tells me everything.” Gunnar pats Eivor’s arm a little too hard, and Eivor’s drink sloshes dangerously. Truly, no drink is safe around Gunnar. 

“Vili is my oldest friend, Gunnar, I…” Eivor shakes his head, not sure why he’s suddenly trying to argue this. He does not mind Gunnar knowing, but… what does Gunnar think he knows? Eivor can barely make head or tails of his own feelings, he can’t sort the lingering from the new, or where they begin and end - only that Vili has taken over more thoughts than Eivor deems necessary, and the thought of thinking otherwise only leaves Eivor feeling cold. Back in Hemthorpe, he wanted nothing more than to ask for longer, to keep Vili all to himself. He didn’t. He couldn’t. Not then, not when Hemthorpe was waiting for its new leader, and Vili had such a weight to shoulder. And Vili had agreed, they’d been sensible, they’d put their feelings to bed - literally - to move forward with clear minds and hearts. 

Yet, Eivor sits here with a heart that feels heavier than any armour he’s ever worn. His head spins with thoughts of Vili, and not because of the mead in his hands. He wants to find him, to be around him, to talk with him about everything and nothing, but he told himself no. Duty comes first, no matter the span of years that desire might cross. 

It just stings, having something so close, and yet so out of reach. Eivor’s fingers tighten around the tankard, and his gaze is drawn into its honey depths where he lurks in silence. 

“Ah, Eivor... “ Gunnar’s words are softer now, closer. Eivor feels a heavy arm settle across his shoulders, perhaps like a father would comfort a son. The likeness twists an old tether in Eivor’s heart, and his head bows against whatever onslaught memory would deliver. “This weighs heavy on that heart of yours, I see it.” Gunnar claps the front of Eivor’s chest with his other hand before returning it to the table, leaning forward so he can see Eivor properly.

“Don’t let it sink you. Either speak it to him so you don’t carry it any longer, or share it with another, so you don’t carry it alone.” 

Gunnar speaks true. Eivor knows this, but it doesn’t make the thought go down any easier. He takes another sip of his drink, chasing down the bitter with the sweet, as though it might wash away the complications of such tangled feelings. Still, they linger like cobwebs in his lungs, and Eivor finds every breath is just as laden with worry as the one before it. 

“I know, Gunnar.” Eivor manages after a moment, along with a faltering smile. “I know. Thank you.” 

Gunnar looks unconvinced, but for all his lack of subtlety, he does at least know when to stop. He simply pats Eivor’s shoulder twice, and makes to get up. “I’m off to find a drink, seeing as mine was stolen by a wayward raven.” He chuckles, nudging Eivor’s head as he passes into the crowd. Eivor rises from his seat too, not wishing to be left alone with his thoughts in such a crowded longhouse. 

It is a long night, Eivor finds, in spite of the joy and relief he feels at being home and surrounded by friends. Everywhere he looks, he finds a space noticeably empty - devoid of Sigurd’s presence. He hadn’t noticed at first, but now the evening has drawn on late into the night and tomorrow is beginning to loom, Eivor finds his thoughts pulled away from the warmth of the longhouse and pushed by a frigid wind towards the sharp-fanged fjords of Norway. It draws the life out of this place, all sounds of revelry growing muffled around him as his heartbeat pounds in his ears, fingers trembling around the empty tankard he holds. He feels his chest grow tight with a brewing anxiety, roiling like a barely-contained storm. 

Fresh air. He needs fresh air.

Eivor barely watches where he’s going in the next moment, gaze set on the darkened sky he can see out of the doorway across the hall. He sidesteps a multitude of blurry figures, faceless and nameless in the moment, setting his empty mug down on a table before he finally crosses the threshold and feels the welcome sting of the cold night air on his face. He takes a lungful of air, eyes sliding shut. As soon as he does, a realm of shadow and smoke spills out before him, all sound melting away into insignificance until it is just him and a directionless wind, slowly wrapping around him. The fabric of his tunic pulls taut, his hair swept up in the breeze, and it grows bitterly cold as it draws in closer and closer around him. He can see a familiar cloaked figure approaching out of the gloom, the glint of an eye peeking out from under the deep hood. An eye that has watched him for a long time now, Eivor feels, and that unrelenting stare is joined by a thin, scar-stitched smile. 

“Have you grown tired of choices, Eivor?” The One-Eyed asks, voice as thin as the smoke that shrouds him. Eivor feels rooted to the spot by some strange seidr, and he glances down to find the same smoke now trailing up his legs, stronger than any chain. 

“It is not the choices I tire of.” Eivor snaps, head jerking back up to fix his gaze on Odin. So mortal-looking, so frail, but the gravity of his words, his presence -- it sucks Eivor in, despite the white-knuckle grip he tries to keep on his surroundings. 

“It is the aftermath you fear, the ripples of the stone you cast.” Odin determines, stepping ever closer. Eivor’s gaze turns angry, brow furrowing, a snarl on his lips shaped by words he cannot say. Still, Odin continues. “Your actions now will shape the world of many, in time. Is that not a great power?” 

The thought is terrifying. Eivor feels a cold sweat break out beneath the layers of fabric that cling to him, and the wind brings a chill to his skin that makes him shiver. Odin stops just short of Eivor, untouched by the elements of this in-between.

“It is always the same, Eivor,” Odin presses on, and there is just the faintest echo to his words that Eivor notices, and it sounds like regret. “You begin in insignificance, affecting those that do not matter. But you cannot stop, and you find yourself now holding the fate of ones you love in your hands, where it does not belong. You will follow your brother, but you cannot stop him.” 

Eivor shakes his head. “I have gone beyond hope of turning him from what it is he seeks.”

“I know.” Odin begins to move again, this time pacing a slow and steady circle around Eivor. “You worry now for what follows. You have questioned my presence, my guidance, even knowing that you are not alone in your experience - you know that Sigurd suffers the same affliction. If he has found a path, you worry what it means for you.” 

Eivor’s vision begins to swim. The dizzying possibilities of this connection, this affliction, as Odin says -- Eivor has no wish to follow it to its end, not if it takes him away from a life he loves. Away from the _people_ he loves. It’s silent for a moment that stretches out far too long, leaving Eivor wondering if Odin has left. But the shadows are still present at his feet, the smoke tendrils still holding him in place. Then he hears his own voice, but not from his own lips.

_“Odin fought against his fate! It can be done!”_

Eivor sees himself before him then, a little younger, a little less world-weary. Frozen in time, but with ice-forged eyes and defiance written on his face, arms spread in challenge. Eivor remembers this, his words to Valka after the first of many visions began to haunt him. 

“We will see if your belief holds fast after all this time, Eivor.” Odin sounds from behind him, voice echoing in every direction as the wind dies in a death rattle and the smoke falls away, back into Ravensthorpe’s green walkways and the old oak that stands in front of him. He barely has a moment to breathe before there’s a hand at his back, between his shoulder blades, and a warm voice at his ear.

“I wondered where you had got to.” Vili says, and Eivor lets out a strangled gasp, not expecting him to sound so close.

“By the gods— you don’t need to sneak up on me like that!” Eivor whips around, heaving out a sigh. His nerves are completely frayed, and he’s drenched in sweat. He can feel his heart humming away beneath his ribcage, a constant thrumming in his veins just beneath the skin -- everything feels too much all at once. Eivor brings a hand to his forehead, immediately berating himself. It’s not Vili’s fault, none of this is. He doesn’t even know. “Forgive me, Vili. I just needed some fresh air.”

Vili frowns at him, and Eivor supposes he can see right through that pathetic apology. Vili nods his head to the left, in the direction of the wooden deck that wraps around the back of the longhouse, overlooking the pond. It’s a little-used space, mostly storage for shield and weapon racks and home to a few sparse tables. Vili begins walking that way, only shooting a glance over his shoulder to speak. “Come then, let’s find you somewhere quiet.” 

Eivor follows. 

Leading the way, Vili takes a long draw from his tankard and sets it down on a table, one of a few scattered across the terrace. It’s quiet here, the muffled noises of the longhouse drifting through the smallest of gaps in the wooden walls. Faint dots of light shine from within, and gentle torchlight spills out from braziers at each corner of the terrace, bringing some small measure of warmth against the encroaching twilight chill. The moon is bright above them, the sky clear and painted with stars. It’s peaceful. Eivor can feel himself calming down almost right away. 

“Sit.” Vili demands, turning to Eivor. He gestures to the table and the empty benches either side of it. 

“Why?” Eivor asks, “I have legs. I think I will stand.” 

Vili’s lips twitch into an almost smile, but he points again. “No, sit. You are wound up like a bowstring, I fear you might take an axe to the next person who looks at you.” 

That makes Eivor smile, if only a little. He relents, but to his own preferences - he sits on the table instead, propping one leg up on the bench, then looks back at Vili. Hearing the man’s exasperated sigh gives Eivor some measure of self-satisfaction, and his smile turns smug.

“I’m sitting.” Eivor says plainly, gesturing to the table. “Now what?” 

Vili folds his arms across his chest, watching Eivor. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Eivor considers the question, his smile frozen in place. Vili’s patience runs out quickly and he steps closer, arms held out like he’s waiting. The moment stretches too long, with Eivor’s dead stare on Vili and no answer to accompany it. 

“Eivor, you have barely spoken to anyone all evening. I’ve seen you.” Vili speaks again, but his voice is much softer this time. Eivor’s gaze flickers up to Vili’s own, eyebrows rising a little in surprise. So, Vili had been lurking in the longhouse after all. Eivor simply wasn’t looking hard enough. 

“That is not like you at all. I know my friend, I know my Eivor. And I know you said you couldn’t speak of it earlier, but this…” Vili shakes his head, closing the last little bit of space until his hand is almost on Eivor’s knee, but not quite. “It worries me.” Vili admits.

Eivor drops his gaze, head bowing under the strain of pretending everything is just fine. He picks at a splinter on the wood of the table, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he searches for something to say, something that would make Vili feel better. There isn’t much to find. A sliver of the truth might make it go down easier, Eivor supposes.

“Sigurd wishes to travel back to Norway. To see his father, and then…” Eivor trails off, not really knowing how to finish that sentence. To die? To find some… some greater existence? He has no idea. He hears Vili’s sharp intake of breath, and he looks at him then to see what he’s thinking. Dark blue eyes are trained on the table, where Eivor’s picking at splinters. He stops, bringing his hand to rest on his knee in a closed fist. 

“A trip to Norway, then, is that all?” Vili sounds like he’s expecting more. Eivor feels the intent behind the words, the careful needling that Vili has learned to wield when Eivor doesn’t feel like answering his questions. He smiles, thin and weary, but glad that his friend is still trying after all this time. He thinks of Gunnar’s words in the longhouse, still fresh on his mind - he can’t tell Vili what he feels, not right now, but maybe he can share something else and Vili would help him shoulder it.

“Sigurd…” Eivor speaks, voice laden with something not entirely unlike grief, “Sigurd has not been the same for… some time. He speaks of visions and portents, of men made into gods. You know him, Vili, you know he is--”

“Self-important?” Vili gives Eivor a pointed look, but stays his words when Eivor glowers his way. 

“He knows his worth, he always has done. I do not deny that. But his visions of grandeur and glory have grown beyond the reach of mortal hands. He thinks he is something else, and he goes now to see that destiny unfold. I’m afraid of what it means, for him, and…” Eivor shrugs, knowing he can’t hide his own mind from Vili much longer, “...and for me.” 

Vili is quiet. He blinks, like he’s trying to let everything sink in but it sits there swimming above the surface like floating shards of ice, slow to thaw into the sea of understanding. Eivor watches him, how his brow furrows and casts a shadow over his gaze, already ocean-deep. He pays attention to the crinkle of his eyes, the faintest signs of the years passing by. The thin line of his mouth, downturned, and his jaw held tense. All these little signs he knows too well. 

“What does it mean for you?” Vili asks a moment later. Eivor shakes his head, looking at his balled up fist resting on his knee. He uncurls it, flexing a few fingers that return to a fist some moments later when his thoughts are clear enough to speak out loud.

“He is not the only one who dreams of strange things,” Eivor murmurs, “And I’m afraid that what Sigurd has found will drag me into Valhalla with him.” 

Vili’s hand is on his wrist then, gripping tight. A thumb brushes the back of Eivor’s hand, almost to his knuckles, and Eivor watches the motion with a faint smile. 

“I’m not ready to leave this life, Vili, or the people in it.” Eivor lifts his hand to pat Vili’s chest, his meaning clear. “Just got you back, arse-stick, we haven’t raided nearly enough to make the ordeal worth it.” Eivor snorts, his thin attempt at humour barely holding together. Vili holds onto him still, expression completely unreadable, but Eivor can’t move his hand back to his knee, not with the way Vili’s holding him so tightly. So he waits, eyes drifting to where his hand now lies on Vili’s chest.

“You need a crew, take me with you.” Vili demands. Eivor chews at his lip, thinking. It was an option, a question he’d considered asking, but he doesn’t want to be the one to take Vili away from Ravensthorpe so soon. It’s a selfish thought -- he brought Vili back because Vili wanted a home here, but some part of him deep down knows that he wanted Vili with him again. Eivor sighs softly, glancing up at Vili.

“I wasn’t going to ask…” He says.

Vili huffs, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t need to. I would follow you anywhere.” 

Eivor closes his eyes, smiling, and ducks his head. That warmth from before comes back tenfold, blooming up through his chest like a spring thaw. He has no doubt of Vili’s feelings, Eivor can see them plain as day. But this nagging feeling, this looming call to Norway simply will not leave him alone long enough to indulge in something more, not just yet, and Eivor has to dwell on that before he looks back up at Vili again. But he hasn’t noticed how his fingers have curled into the unlaced collar of Vili’s tunic, tugging the fabric tight. His knuckles graze against warm skin, feeling the faint thrum of a heartbeat thudding beneath, one that seems to quicken the longer Eivor lingers. He’s watching Vili’s face, those rugged features caught in a red haze of alcohol and heat, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, but somehow clear in spite of everything else. Eivor feels the corner of his mouth lift into a smirk, pleased at Vili’s reaction. 

Then he pulls Vili in, eyes closing as he presses their lips together. It’s messy and hurried, Eivor unable to put their surroundings out of mind. He can still hear the rowdy singing and the clatter of axes on wood, of fists pounding upon tables and shields, and it’s making his heart stutter with a swelling anxiety as he thinks of his intentions being known to anyone other than Vili. But Vili seems to care far less than Eivor, his rough hands coming to rest either side of Eivor’s face, thumbs pressing a little too roughly at his jaw like he can’t hold Eivor close enough. He smells of the woodsmoke clinging to his beard, tastes of the sweet honey-mead on his lips - the combination is intoxicating, a pleasant reminder of better things than whatever fears roil away beneath his ribcage. Eivor’s grip on Vili’s shirt tightens, pulling him closer still until their noses are bumping and Vili’s half-laughing, half-mumbling into Eivor’s mouth. Eivor pulls away the slightest bit, lips still grazing Vili’s own, breathless and waiting, half an apology on his lips that gets swallowed up as Vili claims him again, pushing into Eivor greedily. 

“Vili,” Eivor mumbles against him, his hand pushing instead of pulling now, “Vili, wait--”

“Just tonight, Eivor, just…” Vili argues weakly, and it twists Eivor’s heart to hear him pleading, as though Eivor alone holds this fateful thread. 

“We agreed, Vili.” Eivor reminds him gently, hand releasing Vili’s shirt to graze knuckles along his chin. The shorn beard scratches roughly at his fingers, but Eivor doesn’t mind. There’s nothing about Vili he would change, save one thing -- and that’s the very thing Eivor can’t bring himself to ask, not just yet. Vili lets out a noise, somewhere between a growl and a sigh as he presses his forehead to Eivor’s, swaying a little from all the mead. Eivor catches him, his arms at Vili’s waist, hands balled in his shirt again but this time only to keep him standing and nothing more. Vili’s grip on Eivor’s jaw slackens, his hands going to Eivor’s neck instead, and he pulls away to look down at Eivor as he tilts Eivor’s head up to look at him. No words, just this lingering stare that says too much all at once, making his expression unreadable. 

Eivor’s too tired tonight to try and guess at unspoken meanings, too tired to let hope lift him ready for another fall when morning comes. Norway is lingering, and he needs Vili’s mind as sharp as his own, ready for what lies ahead. “Just once cannot mean more than that, unless you mean it to be something else, Vili.” Eivor speaks softly, though the words leave a bitter taste on his tongue. 

Finally, after a long few moments, Vili nods and steps away. Eivor feels the chill creeping in immediately in his absence, and he pulls his arms back to his sides, hands gripping the table he’s sitting on to save them wandering elsewhere. Vili looks as though he’s about to say something, and Eivor’s awaiting his familiar voice before he hears a clatter and a surprised shout, far too close for his liking. Eivor jerks his head around to see who it is, and he finds Hytham crouched over, hurriedly gathering up a stack of wooden bowls and a tankard in between hurried glances up at Eivor and Vili. It’s then that Eivor realizes what this must look like, and he clears his throat, shooting Vili a sidelong glance. 

“Eivor--” Hytham stands, the gathered bowls teetering dangerously in his arms, “I did not realize you would be out here, forgive me--”

Eivor forces a smile onto his face. “There is nothing to forgive, Hytham. You are free to wander your home as any of us are.”

“We needed some more bowls and Tove mentioned leaving some out here to collect, though she forgot--” Hytham rambles into an explanation, before stopping himself midway through. He seems to take a moment to regain his composure, and squares his shoulders and his stance before speaking again. “I apologise for the interruption, Eivor.”

“Hytham? I don’t think we’ve met,” Vili’s voice sounds from right next to Eivor, and he can feel Vili leaning dangerously close. The cheeky _bacraut_ , always testing, always pushing-- 

“You must be Vili,” Hytham brightens at the welcome change of pace, “Eivor’s friend.” 

“Yes, a friend.” Vili repeats, but Eivor knows that voice, the teasing lilt. He discreetly elbows Vili behind him, keeping his eyes trained on Hytham and his expression as neutral as he dares. Hytham seems not to notice - though Eivor hardly believes that’s true, if anything, he’s deliberately remaining obtuse for the sake of his friend. Eivor should thank him, but that would mean admitting something, so he simply ignores the situation entirely and hopes it will go away. Hytham glances between the two of them, and his smile is struggling to hold up, his bright eyes wide and betraying his obvious uncertainty. 

By the gods, would this moment end? 

It’s Vili who clears his throat this time, and Hytham seems to snap back into his senses. “A pleasure to meet you, Vili, but I’d best get back with… these…” Hytham lifts his arms slightly, cradling the precariously stacked bowls, the tankard hanging off a pinky finger, and his smile is just about visible between the flickering torchlight and the shadow of the longhouse. 

“I will see you later, Hytham.” Eivor tells him, giving him a nod, as though Hytham was waiting for permission to scurry away. Thankfully, the young assassin turns and makes his way down the stone steps of the terrace, disappearing around the corner. Eivor lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, tumbling out into silent laughter. 

“Odin’s beard, you’d think he walked in on the great Eivor being _plowed_ in _public…_ ” Vili growls into Eivor’s ear, and Eivor shoves him square in the chest, only holding his shirt so he doesn’t topple ass over head into the bushes below. 

“You are a _bacraut,_ arse-stick. Completely shameless.” Eivor tells Vili, holding him firmly. Vili laughs, and Eivor feels the rumble through his curled fist, sending warmth blooming throughout him. He resists every urge telling him to pull Vili back to him. Vili spreads his arms, grinning wide, eyes locked on Eivor as he waits to be claimed or freed. 

“What shame is there to be had?” Vili challenges, and Eivor levels his gaze on him. The glowing embers of realization spring to flame somewhere in his chest, melting a sudden ice that had covered his bones and weighed him down in the moment that Hytham had appeared. There isn’t shame in what he feels, Eivor knows that. It’s not so simple as that, though. Too many threads of too many lives have been spun into this one complication that Eivor now carries, and to unwind it would take him too long. This tether to duty over desire has always been a necessary component to Eivor’s survival, his success. What happens if he untangles it now? Or simply cuts the thread away to allow something new to begin? 

He would love to know, but not yet. Eivor needs his mind and his heart entire for the road ahead. 

So he lets Vili go, once he’s certain the man won’t take a tumble off the terrace, and gives him a sad smile.

“There is no shame, Vili,” Eivor assures him quietly, “I chose the wrong word.”

Vili huffs, defiant to the last. But something in his gaze softens and his brow furrows, though he remains where Eivor left him. Eivor, feeling the chill more so now, slides off the table and nods towards the longhouse.

“Let’s get back inside before we get more visitors.” Eivor suggests with a faint chuckle, not quite able to look at Vili. He picks up the mug that Vili had left on the table and shakes it, finding it empty. “Get you some more of this, hm?”

He can feel Vili’s eyes on him, boring into him like they might read his secrets laid bare on the pages of his mind. Eivor has a brief thought that if anybody could, it would be Vili. He stares into the empty tankard, and turns away at long last, back to the longhouse. Whether or not Vili follows, Eivor doesn’t notice. 

* * *

  
  


The morning rises, not quite summer-sweet yet, but the chill of winter is long past. Eivor can smell the dew as he wakes, pale light streaming in through the doorway to his room in the longhouse, just in time for Eivor to realize the way his head is feeling as thick as seafog, and his stomach rolls uncomfortably. He groans, rubbing at his eyes like it might help, but he knows he did this to himself and half of Ravensthorpe would be feeling much worse today. There would be little sympathy amongst fellow sufferers. He hears Mouse stirring on the floor beside his bed, and he rolls onto his front to watch as a distraction from his hangover, a sleepy smile on his face at her twitching paws. A strange friend he’s made, but a welcome one. After a few idle minutes of watching and almost drifting back asleep, Eivor forces himself awake. He has much to organise today and he cannot keep Sigurd waiting, no matter how rough he might feel.

Once he’s dressed and at least half-awake, Eivor slips out of the longhouse and finds his way to the docks once again. He can see a few early risers milling about, but a vast majority of the settlement seems to be recovering from the feast. He briefly wonders where Vili ended up, but between the pounding headache and bleary eyes, Eivor remembers something about a haystack and Randvi holding someone’s breeches. Maybe Rollo was there? He can’t be sure, and more to the point, he doesn’t think he wants to know.

Stepping onto the dock, Eivor glances about and looks for Sigurd. It isn’t hard to find him on this lonely morning, pale sunlight scattering across the water of the Nene and reflecting onto the dock. His pelt stands out, still bright and vibrant amongst the muddy water and muted wooden planks of the dock. Eivor lifts his chin up, squares his shoulders, and tries to at least look like he’s capable of a week’s journey to Norway despite his sorry state. 

“Sigurd.” He greets his brother, walking along the dock. Sigurd looks up from where he’s hunched over in quiet contemplation, and there’s a flash of bright recognition in his eyes. No smile to greet him, but Eivor can make peace with that.

“Shall we, then, Eivor? To Norway, and well beyond.” Sigurd says it far too easily for Eivor’s liking. Nonetheless, Eivor nods, knowing he at least has a crew waiting that will make the journey a little easier. 

“Let the crew wake, then we can be on our way.” Eivor tells him, “We will get there soon, I promise you.”

For the first time in a long time, Sigurd cracks a smile for his brother. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some big sigurd and eivor complex brotherly vibes here, i tried to rewrite it in a way that made it not feel like you're just replaying the game but oh god. so much dialogue. 
> 
> thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos' so far, i know it's only a little corner of a niche but it's heartening to see that so many people felt the same way about vili's romance! here's hoping this lil old fic will get you some sweet sweet closure <3

The skalds speak of glory on the whale-roads, of skimming waves and dangers of the deep as they strike out in search of spoils and plunder, of new lands for the taking. Every child grows up with these songs in their heart, placed there by the bonds of clan and kin that surround them. Every child hopes one day to see it for themselves, axe in hand, face turned to the sun as Odin watches over them on their journey into future sagas and songs. Eivor is no exception. This is the summit of the mountain; to conquer England so thoroughly and return to the land that made him, singing songs of his victories, giving hope to the young blood of Norway. He has dreamed of this day, like many others, and now it has arrived.

But this is empty. There is no mighty song drifting over the waves to announce their return. There are no tales of glory being spun between blood-forged drengir, crowing over their spoils. There is nothing, only whispers full of fear and apprehension, rippling between the hunched shoulders and bowed heads of Eivor’s crew, wondering on the fate that awaits them. Among them, Vili’s silence is the loudest. Eivor finds himself constantly looking his way, as if he’d find some glimmer of warmth there, some hope to hold onto. The few times Vili finds him looking, he barely manages a smile, and Eivor feels the chill cut even deeper.

A heavy, suffocating cold hangs over the longship as it cuts through the dark waters of the northern seas. Eivor can barely feel his face against the sharp breeze, nose long past the point of numbness, and he has to squint to keep his eyes open against the harsh sunlight bouncing off the waters. They are nearing Alrekstad. He can see the stony fjords rising from the fog that blankets the near horizon, the gaping jaws of the north ready to greet him once more. He feels as though it should be a welcome sight, but it only fills him with a sinking dread that threatens to pull him under these icy waters. If there was ever a familiarity to be found here in the bones of the place he once called home, Eivor fears he is far too late to see it. 

“So strange…” Sigurd’s voice cuts through the wind and waves, and Eivor glances down from the prow to find his brother sitting there, gaze cast over the open sea. “Little has changed, but it feels… unfamiliar.”

Eivor finds himself agreeing, nodding as Sigurd looks back at him. “Our few years abroad have shaped us more than all the decades we spent here, brother.”

“And it’s bloody cold!” Sigurd shivers, hunching in on himself. “Colder than I remember.”

Eivor feels his lips pull into a faint smile, not quite there. It  _ is _ cold. Far colder than he remembers Norway being, but he wonders if England’s kinder climate has simply made them softer. It happens. Ivarr said as much of Ubba, and Eivor can see how. 

“This is Harald Fairhair’s kingdom now, every peak and fjord.” Sigurd continues, and Eivor can hear the tense edge in his voice. Styrbjorn’s betrayal has never left him. Eivor fears it never will, and that part of his desire to come to Alrekstad and find his father is not for a farewell, but for a show of superiority. A final crow of victory, to show Styrbjorn what his son could have been. “It pains me to say. To  _ think _ it, even.”

“And our father, his fool.” Eivor sighs, fingers gripping tighter on the rope around the prow. He can barely feel them holding on. “The poor man.”

Sigurd glances up at him, a cold fire in his gaze. “It is a role he chose, Eivor. He bent easily, and broke in half. Do not pity him.”

“No.” Eivor agrees, in some small way. His memory of Styrbjorn hasn’t been shaped by the same anger that hounded Sigurd all the way to England. He fails to remember that, at times. 

“For many moons, I could not sleep, always thinking of his betrayal.” Sigurd’s hand grips the side of the longship, his knuckles white. Eivor watches carefully, listening. He’s known this has followed Sigurd for a long time now, but he’s never heard it spoken aloud like this. How long can you hold such a rage before it begins to twist you? Eivor did the very same with Kjotve. It is not his place to put such a question on Sigurd, and he stows the thought away.

“The horrors I wished upon him…” Sigurd presses on, “He deserves nothing but shame now.” And he looks away, across the waters to where Alrekstead lies in wait. Eivor’s gaze follows, eyeing the first of many faint ships coming into view through the fog. So that was part of Sigurd’s intention after all, Eivor guesses, with a slight twinge of pity. He can’t help it, not when Styrbjorn had taken him in as his own, had gone out of his way to give Eivor a life he otherwise would never have had. It is a hard thing to undo, even as he feels the fires of his brother’s rightful rage. Is it truly a lesson that needs to be given? Eivor doubts it.

“Put it out of your mind, Sigurd. There is no need to hound the old man.” Eivor ventures, a little more boldly than he means to. Immediately, Eivor feels Sigurd’s eyes on him again, but he doesn’t meet him there. Instead, Eivor keeps his eyes fixed on Alrekstad.

“No. He must taste the same foulness that I tasted,” Sigurd growls, “He must know what glory he missed by staying here, the lapdog of a conqueror.”

“You want to speak with him?” Eivor asks, a blunt hammer to the anvil of Sigurd’s anger. It would likely make it worse, but Eivor needs to know just what he plans once he sets foot in Alrekstad. The last thing either of them need is a clash of blades on Harald’s land.

“Yes!” Sigurd’s voice pitches. Is it anger, or desperation? Eivor can’t tell. “Face to face, I will tell him the truth.” 

Eivor mulls those words over for a short moment. He glances across the faces of his crew, now completely silent as they watch a rare conversation unfold. When he lands on Vili, he sees the concern there, the unspoken questions that Eivor has no doubt will find their way to him, sooner or later. For now, Eivor simply shakes his head, admitting some measure of doubt to Vili, before he’s looking back at Sigurd. He’s not watching Eivor anymore. Instead, he’s standing, turned towards the looming lights of Alrekstad.

“Look, Alrekstad thrives,” Sigurd gestures towards it, “In spite of our father, no doubt.”

“Are you sure of this?” Eivor asks him. Whatever Sigurd is after, Eivor is certain he won’t find his ancestors waiting in the muddy streets of this town. It seems a pointed visit, meant to deliver a final blow to an old man who, by Randvi’s warning, is lying in wait for his grave. 

“Yes, Eivor,” Sigurd turns his head, giving his brother a sidelong glance, “I will say what needs to be said.”

Eivor narrows his eyes at him. Never before has he been so bold in matters involving Styrbjorn, not even as Kjotve breathed down their necks in Fornburg. “Do you fear his rebuke?”

Sigurd laughs, cold and hollow. “Oh, no! I crave it. It may be that the old hound has lost his bark.”

“Or it may be that you light a fire beneath him, inspire him with tales of our glory.” Eivor dares to hope, even though he knows that hope will shatter against Sigurd’s stubborn ire.

“If I do, I will stoke that flame until it  _ burns _ .” 

* * *

  
  


The wood of the dock creaks underfoot as Eivor follows Sigurd back to the longship and their waiting crew. Eivor still feels as though he’s caught mid-conversation with Styrbjorn, seeing the old man’s face again had stirred some buried grief within him that now clouds the clear waters of his mind. He can hear Sigurd speaking, but nothing comes to him in complete sentences. He tries to pull his focus back in, to pay attention. Now, there is no murmuring voice at all. Frowning, Eivor looks up from the rotting wood, gaze passing over his crew before he comes back to Sigurd, who has fallen silent, deep in thought.

“Dwelling on your father?” Eivor asks, partly hoping he isn’t alone in the mire of his thoughts. Sigurd shakes his head, giving Eivor a sidelong look.

“No. I was only reflecting on my visions, wondering at them… how present they are. They feel like memories of yesterday.” Sigurd says quietly. In a strange moment of sudden clarity, Eivor understands. These visions, they appear to him as memories too - he said as much to Valka. He is known to others in another lifetime, and he knows them. Friends, lovers, enemies - each and every one tethered to him in a way he understands intimately, but he cannot place it, cannot name it outside of that memory. Is this what Sigurd speaks of? 

“Describe them for me.” Eivor requests. Sigurd glances at him, brow furrowing ever so slightly. It gives away the curiosity Eivor sees, burning now behind that icy stare. A glimmer of something. Hope, maybe.

“My earliest was of a large door, embedded in ice, far north of Hordafylke.” Sigurd begins, “The Saga Stone embedded at the top of its arch.”

Familiarity rings clear in Eivor’s mind. He sees the same stone, though the doorway was open to him, an arch embedded in the rock. One of his earliest visions, too. 

“As the visions grew stronger, the door opened, revealing many things,” Sigurd continues, gaze dropping away from Eivor as he recalls his visions. His voice grows soft with reverence. “The life tree, Yggdrasil. The golden fields of Valhalla. And the faces of our gods, all of whom called me friend, brother, warrior. I felt at home among them, warmed by their love.”

Eivor takes in a sharp breath. It is the same, just as Odin had told him. There is a knot in his chest, a twisted thread of both relief and uncertainty, if the two could ever exist in twain. 

But he must be honest with Sigurd, as Sigurd has been honest with him.

“You should know, you are not alone in this.” Eivor tells him, eyes darting from Sigurd to the longship, to the horizon beyond. He doesn’t know where to look, nothing seems safe. “I too have had these visions.”

He can see Sigurd turning to him out of the corner of his eye. Slowly and with suspicion, it feels like. That rankles Eivor a little, stirring some hidden ire somewhere deep in his gut that Sigurd perhaps believed he was the only one worthy of such visions. 

“Have you? And what did they foretell?” Sigurd asks, words pointed. Eivor swallows, licking his lips nervously as he considers his next few words carefully. 

“I have seen the same stone upon a doorway, shrouded by ice and rock and snow. I have seen Odin leading me into shadows. I’ve seen spinners weaving wild destinies from pools of blood.” The deeper Eivor delves, the more strangled his words become - as though an unseen hand is closing around his throat. He steps away, as if some space from Sigurd would let him breathe. He finds it is only colder still as he trudges towards the memories that left him waking in the night at Ravensthorpe, the faint howl of wolves outside his door. Of the great beast with red eyes, teeth bared as it turned on him - on Havi.

“I saw the great beast, Fenrir. I saw the branches of the world tree, and a man with…” Eivor turns, slowing, and glances to the place where Sigurd’s sword-arm ends abruptly. A covered scar, a missing right hand. 

“Go on.” Sigurd murmurs, and Eivor can’t tell if it’s a challenge or genuine curiosity. Sigurd is watching him intensely from under a heavy brow, waiting. 

“Valka warned me of a betrayal,” Eivor reaches his intended meaning at long last, anxiety unfurling rapidly with his words, “But what form it takes, I cannot say.”

“I see.” Sigurd’s gaze levels with Eivor’s own as they stand now, facing each other squarely on the dock. Where before they may have stumbled into a tense stand-off, both defiant and proud to a fault, Eivor senses a strange calm between them now. A peace. An understanding that tethers them to the same point, though they have long wandered in opposite directions in search of answers.

“I hold to my oaths, Sigurd. You know that.” Eivor has to say it, the gnawing worry won’t leave him alone long enough. “Betrayal is not in my nature.”

Sigurd seems to lighten for a moment, eyes growing warm at long last. He gives the smallest of shrugs, shaking his head as if Eivor’s words were already known to him. “Of course not. You are as stalwart as a pillar of stone.” He smiles, and Eivor feels a glimmer of hope come to life in his heart. Sigurd closes the gap between them, reaching out to land his hand on Eivor’s shoulder. “Come now. My destiny awaits.”

And just like that, hope dies in silence between the bones of his ribcage, confining a bruised and beaten heart to its stubborn and lonely song. 

Eivor can only watch as Sigurd boards the longship, and he must follow - as he promised. As he always would. 

Eivor isn’t sure if it’s the plummeting temperatures or the mind-fog that still lingers from Styrbjorn’s words in the meadhall, but he finds himself completely unable to focus as he guides the longship according to Sigurd’s vague directions. They have passed through the stony teeth of the northernmost fjord, through a blinding white rage beyond that with thick snow that falls in sheets, and now the rocky shore is coming slowly into view. A cold, empty landing, not a soul to welcome them. 

The crew sink into a dead silence. There’s a fell touch on the air, the wind falling away to nothing as soon as they pass through the storm, as though time is frozen in somebody’s last breath of life. With numb fingers and chattering teeth, Eivor gestures for the crew to turn the ship to shore. Even the crunch of stone under the hull is muffled as the longship comes to rest, and Eivor looks at Sigurd, eyes wide and uncertain. 

Then a howling wind shatters the silence, bringing with it a new surge of white rage, snow falling in heavy flurries and stinging Eivor’s eyes. He grits his teeth and motions for the crew to dig out the mast awning, hopping down from the prow to help them pull it into place. If the storm persists, they’d at least have shelter. 

“Yes, yes… this feels familiar!” Sigurd stands, looking at Eivor as though he hopes he’ll find a shared sentiment there. For once, Eivor feels nothing, and looks away as he finishes helping Vili tie one of the fixings down. Vili catches Eivor’s hand for a moment, blatantly. Eivor freezes.

“You don’t have to go.” Vili murmurs quietly, voice almost lost in the sound of the crew directing each other into place around them as the awning gets pulled taught across both sides of the longship, using the lowered sail beam as the central support. Eivor shakes his head. Of course he has to go. 

“I do, Vili,” Eivor tells him gently, “It is just a question of how far. I do not know what he expects to find here.” 

Vili’s hand tightens around Eivor’s, and Eivor finally looks up at him. Vili’s face is set in stone, blank and unreadable, but his eyes hold a storm all of their own, far angrier than the one that rages around them. “You will come back, or I will drag you back myself.” 

Eivor has nothing to say to that. It is a well placed hammer strike to some stone-shaped part of his heart that refuses to come undone, and he can feel the thudding beat slowly come to life in his chest. His hands grow warm despite the bitter cold, cheeks stinging with a blush that makes the cold all the more painful, but sweeter. Swallowing down a rising tide of emotion, Eivor manages a sharp, jerky nod just before he hears Sigurd bellowing over the wind again.

“Eivor! We press on!” Sigurd climbs out of the longship, turning back only to address the crew, “The rest of you, stay, keep warm, and be on your guard!” 

Eivor feels Vili’s hand leave his own, but before he can turn away entirely Eivor reaches up to squeeze his arm. The smallest of gestures, but between this and Vili’s words, it grants Eivor a warmth set deep in his chest that even this blizzard can’t put out. And then he’s turning away, climbing out of the ship after Sigurd.

His feet splash into icy water. Though his boots keep the worst of the chill at bay, the shock travels up through him like a flash-freeze, chest constricting against the cold. He forces out a breath, fixes his eyes on Sigurd, and begins to trudge after him, the slip of the rocky shore quickly replaced by the crunch of snow underfoot. Eivor’s eyes trail the path of white that runs up, and up, and into a foggy cloud beyond which Eivor can’t see. Snow blinds him a moment later, he growls out a curse and rubs his eyes free of the snowflakes, holding his hand in front of his face to save his sight from the worst of the flurries.

“Sigurd, can we not wait for this to pass?” Eivor shouts, forcing one foot in front of the other along the path that Sigurd’s left behind. He can barely hear Sigurd’s response over the howling wind, but his ears catch something about ice on skin. Eivor grunts, shouldering the worst of the wind as he pushes closer to Sigurd to better hear him.

“We walk the footpath of the gods!” Sigurd’s words find him then, but Eivor’s in no mood for his delusions. 

“To where? More glaciers and deserts of snow?” 

“To glory, Eivor!” Sigurd shoots a glance over his shoulder, and Eivor can just about make out the familiar icy stare. Strangely at home in these wild surroundings, Eivor notices, but he doesn’t dwell on that thought.

Watching as Sigurd turns away again and continues on, Eivor calls after him. “Could we not at least wait until this tempest--” 

“What did he tell you?” Sigurd interrupts, not stopping. Eivor blinks, confused and blindsided by Sigurd’s sudden change of topic. His silence isn’t sufficient for Sigurd, who calls out to him again a few seconds later. “On the longship, your heads bowed like a pair of conspiring carrion-birds. What did he tell you?!” 

Eivor can only think he means Vili, and some strange surge of anger pushes him on after Sigurd, footsteps crunching through the snow with growing momentum. “That is for me to know, brother.” 

“Does he mean to sway you from my side? To turn your loyalty?” Sigurd presses, and Eivor can feel the first of many thin threads beginning to snap. His patience is barely holding. “Did you bring a man who doubts so strongly into my clan, Eivor, knowing he would twist your thoughts?” 

Eivor lashes out, a bitter rage cutting through the blizzard as he grabs Sigurd’s arm and wrenches his brother to face him. He looks up at Sigurd, he has to, but his teeth are bared and his eyes are burning, battle-hugr singing faintly in his blood. “Listen to yourself!” 

Sigurd’s ire thaws almost immediately, as soon as Eivor’s hand is on him. Just like it had when he’d lashed out at Styrbjorn, and Eivor reached for him then. Twice now he has pulled him from the brink of unbridled rage. Eivor watches him closely, seeing that cold fire in his eyes die out to a faint light, and he waits for the thaw of realization to set in. Sigurd’s words die in his throat, mouth moving but making no sound. He presses his lips together in a thin line, brow furrowing - not with anger, but something heavier. Remorse. 

Eivor holds him there, fist balled in Sigurd’s furs as he speaks again. “I have followed you this far. You told me once, that you would never lead me into something that you did not know the cost of. I am willing to trust you, Sigurd, but if you question my honor, my  _ loyalty  _ to you--” 

“I do not, Eivor. I know my brother.” Sigurd interrupts, almost pleading. He seems shaken by something, and Eivor hates that he can’t place it. He holds Sigurd’s gaze for a long moment, searching and finding nothing. There are these brief glimpses of familiarity that come to light in between the moments of madness, but they have become too rare, too easily-missed. A brief flicker of a star moments before it blinks out. Eivor’s jaw tenses, throat growing tight with anger. Sigurd’s words had stirred up something in him, to be so bold in his accusations of Vili makes Eivor simmer with a quiet fury and it will not die down easily.

For now, Eivor releases Sigurd from his grasp, and looks away to the snow-covered mountain looming before them. “I hope that you do, because I fear I do not know mine.” 

A strangled noise leaves Sigurd’s throat, and Eivor looks back to see his regret written plainly on his face. It stings, but does nothing to quiet Eivor’s feelings. 

“Eivor, please,” Sigurd places his hand on Eivor’s shoulder and begins to walk them up the mountain again, “I know I have been lost in a fog. It has lifted, and I only want to show you the glory that lies beyond it. I want my brother with me.”

Eivor walks alongside him, eyes shining in the snow-flurry. He closes them and thinks of his promise to Sigurd, spoken aloud on the docks of Fornburg as they stood looking out at the great horizon, wondering what lay beyond. “From here to Valhalla, brother. I meant it that day in Fornburg, I mean it now. Don’t doubt my word.” 

Sigurd gives Eivor a firm nod. “Then let us find it.” 

They press on for a few moments more, making headway up the mountain amidst the storm, side by side.

“He told me to come back, or he would drag me back himself.” Eivor murmurs, not looking at Sigurd directly. He can feel his gaze on him in the next moment, and it becomes harder to ignore until at last Eivor meets him there, expecting some retaliation. Sigurd says nothing, but Eivor can see the strain of a smile beneath his frozen face, the slight softness to his eyes that creeps in at the corners. Then Sigurd turns away, back to the path, leaving Eivor following in his wake, wondering at the unexpected reaction. 

They continue through this bitter winter, Sigurd following nothing but vague memories of familiar rock and terrain. Eivor can only trust that there is something greater to these visions, these memories, because if there is no truth behind them, they will not see the night out. He tries not to think too much of it, following Sigurd along a flattening incline and through a gap in the looming rock, grey and stark against the whiteout. A frozen lake lies beyond, something Sigurd seems to know - his pace quickens, and Eivor has to push himself to keep up. He can hear Sigurd’s shouts, but the words are carried away on the wind as Eivor focuses on his footing across the lake. As they near the other side a great cavern awaits, and something about it draws Eivor in, as though out of his own mind and into the body of another. 

The next thing he remembers is a great door, one that evokes a memory of his time in Vinland. It sets his mind aflame, leaving him searching through the ashes of what is his and what has been left to him from another time. There is an aching familiarity here, as though he is returning to something long lost and now found, but not quite the way he left it. It is as strange as it is reassuring. At the top sits an empty space, one that Eivor has seen before.

“The Saga Stone sat there, did it not?” Eivor barely speaks above a whisper, but all is quiet now in this cavern with the wind far behind them. Sigurd stands next to him, gazing up. Awestruck. He nods shakily, clearly overwhelmed by the feeling of this place. 

“Long, long ago.” Sigurd confirms, “Stand ready, Eivor. I will open the way.”

Eivor doesn’t feel the need to reach for his axes just yet, but he rests his hand atop one slung in his belt. The feel of solid, cold metal beneath his palm bolsters his will, and he watches carefully as Sigurd approaches. Words begin to spill from Sigurd’s mouth - or at least, Eivor thinks they are words. They are not spoken in any language known to him, no matter how hard he listens and tries to pry the syllables apart. There is a fluid nature to them that defies every attempt of understanding Eivor makes in that short moment, and then the rumbling stone underfoot alerts Eivor to the door beginning to rise up, revealing a great hall of stone beyond. 

“Gods... “ Eivor breathes, eyes wide. “What is this place?”

Sigurd leaves him wondering, no answer given as he strides down into the hall. Eivor follows, unable to tear his eyes away from how vast this place is, towering around him. He feels insignificant, a speck of dust floating through some forgotten moment in time. One step after another, Eivor is led through ancient memory by Sigurd. Everything begins to blur, light and colour colliding into senseless shapes and figures, things that his mind can’t comprehend. He remembers the rumble of stone shaking through his bones, a sinking feeling in his gut as gravity shifts. He is pulled down into darkness, but Sigurd’s voice remains to guide him all the way until Eivor finally sees a gargantuan monolith of metal and stone with sprawling arms, stretched out over a crumbling platform. It thrums with life. Eivor can feel the pull already, even this far up. 

“Here, all the roots of life run together.” Sigurd says from next to him, and Eivor realizes he’s been talking all this time, but he has heard nothing, lost entirely in his awe. 

“The skalds would cry to behold such a sight.” Eivor walks forward, the platform beneath their feet still descending. It slows a moment later, and comes to a stop before a walkway that Sigurd immediately steps onto, smiling back at Eivor.

“And there is more to come. I swear by all the names of the All-Father, this is only a taste of what I have in store for you.” He tells Eivor, beaming with pride. And Eivor can’t deny that he’s curious now, these visions, these memories - they led to something. A tangible facet of reality that sits before him. To deny it now would be careless.

“For my visions go further, into Odin’s great hall itself.” Sigurd gestures to the path ahead of him that runs all the way to the strange altar-like plinth, sitting beneath the suspended arms of this gigantic structure. Sigurd clearly intends to press on, and Eivor nods for him to go ahead. He falls into step right behind him, a lingering presence on his skin making his hairs stand on end. At first, he felt the faint humming was his own anxieties surfacing beneath the skin, but it grows louder as he nears the altar. 

“Do you feel that? The sacred energies!” Sigurd points out as they walk, though Eivor feels as though he’s almost running. It’s hurried, a growing sense of urgency passing between them the closer this altar is.

“Yes, it-- it feels like a strange seidr upon me.” Eivor answers.

Through a laugh, Sigurd looks back at Eivor over his shoulder, ascending the few steps to the plinth. “This shrine is ours. It will open for us. Watch, and see for yourself.” 

“How do you know these things? Was this in your vision?” Eivor finds himself asking, unable to quite fathom the idea of all this appearing through a dream, as clear as it stands now. But then, neither did he ever think he would walk Asgard’s halls or scale the ice-towers of Jotunheim, and both of those he remembers as though it was yesterday.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by Sigurd’s answer. “All this and more.” 

An echo of Havi rushes through him, a searing pain flaring up behind his left eye, one that makes Eivor cry out. He sees the glittering well of Mimir before him, godly ichor dripping from his hand to forever stain the fate of humanity that might flourish from the waters. He feels the same fear he felt then, as Havi, a twist to his gut and a tightness in his lungs that will not leave, even after he has given all this and more. Slowly, the pool dissipates and leaves only the image of the altar before him, and Sigurd standing where Hyrrokin stood, looking at him with concern.

“Eivor… your eye.” Sigurd speaks slowly, as if he can’t believe the sight in front of him. Eivor blinks, and it’s then that he realizes he can’t see from his left eye. Just like in that vision. His hand flies to his face with sickening realization, and he feels the warm blood pooling at his cheek. His fingers are heavy as they drag against his face, drawing the blood into his beard by accident as he stares at Sigurd in confusion. 

“I… I saw the Well, I saw--” Eivor stammers out, but the rest of his words die on his tongue, leaving his mouth dry as a bone. Sigurd approaches him, arm outstretched towards him. 

“It is alright, brother. Your eye remains, it is just bloodied.” Sigurd peers closer, hand gripping Eivor’s forearm to steady him. “You saw the Well?”

“For days I wandered Asgard and Jotunheim, as him-- as Odin. I see now where our memories differ.” Eivor whispers, quietly relieved to hear his eye remains entire. He would… he would deal with the consequences later. Sigurd doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but his hand comes up to rest at Eivor’s neck, turning his face away to the left. Eivor can’t help but feel like he’s being inspected, and it leaves him feeling uncomfortable in Sigurd’s grip. “Sigurd..” 

“We will speak of this later.” Sigurd murmurs, letting go of Eivor. “For now, let me show you what you deserve to see.” 

Eivor, through his one-eyed stare, manages to follow Sigurd well enough to a smaller alcove set above the altar, tucked away. It’s here that the humming grows louder and louder, until he feels as though his skull might shatter from the sound. His vision swims with bright light as he follows Sigurd, until he’s all but blinded in both eyes, reaching out to find his way forward. Sigurd grabs his arm, and Eivor is rocked by a sudden relief that he isn’t here alone.

“It _is_ bright, brother,” Sigurd’s voice comes to him, “This ancient shrine is set alight by this sphere of metal.”

Eivor slowly adjusts to the burning light, able to open his eye just enough to see what Sigurd speaks of. A metal sphere, as he said, sat there before him, overlaid with these strange markings - almost runes, Eivor would guess, but they’re so unlike anything he knows. And he’s seen this once before, in Vinland. He feels that same pull of familiarity that he felt upon finding the cavern - like his mind is being pulled from him, into something or someone else. 

“These shining arms, these branches. They will grant us access to the refuge of the gods.” Sigurd tells him, grip on Eivor’s arm growing slack as he turns them both back towards the altar. “To Valhalla, Eivor. Are you ready?”

Eivor doesn’t know if he ever will be. He has come this far, stumbling into blindness and reaching for Sigurd, who he has to trust will bring him home. If that means they must find Valhalla first…

“What lies beyond all this?” Eivor breathes, not quite trusting his voice to carry. He looks at Sigurd as best as he can, blood drying fast on his cheek. “Where does this lead?”

Between them, the blinding light from the sphere grows as though it’s listening in, responding to their conversation like another participant. Eivor wonders if it really is, if there’s entire souls trapped in there and that they too are about to follow. But what other choice does he have? He won’t make the journey back to the ship alone, not when Sigurd feels the closest to himself he’s ever been and he’s now in arms reach, if Eivor can just keep hold of him--

“Take your place at the centre there, and you will see.” Sigurd lets him go, and Eivor feels as though he takes his last shred of defiance along with him. Eivor feels empty, hollow, his bones rattle in the space vacated by his conscience as he steps down, slowly, uncertainly, and makes his way to the altar. 

Eivor cannot bring himself to hope that he might return, he only prays that his sacrifice will be enough for Sigurd, because nothing else was. 


	4. Chapter 4

The light surrounding Eivor was blinding before, but now it’s as though the sun itself has been brought to ground by the wolf, Skoll’s jaws, and Eivor must look upon it with eyes wide open. He feels weightless, feet dangling in the air, and there’s a strange sensation that travels up his spine - both painful and pleasant, reaching up into the base of his skull where it softens, like a mother cradling her newborn’s head, and Eivor feels his eyes closing - one that shuts out the light, the other sees nothing to begin with. 

When he wakes next, Eivor feels as though he’s rousing from a heavy sleep, full of deep dreams. His fingers curl into furs beneath his head, the comfort of a bed beneath his body making it difficult to even open his eyes, but he does, slowly. A soft light drifts into the room, followed by the smell of cooked meats and a wood fire, somewhere not too far away. He lies still, taking in his surroundings. The bed, the furs, the dark wood of the room adorned with tapestries and splintered shields - it is achingly familiar, like his room back in Ravensthorpe. Had he fallen to the depths of Hordafylke? Was he dragged back home by Sigurd? Where is Sigurd? Where are his crew--

He sits up, feeling cold to the bone despite the warmth of the sunlight that fills his room. But this is not his room, not the one that he knows -- it leads out into a hallway, an unfamiliar one. Narrowing his eyes, Eivor stands, slow and careful, wondering if he is still trapped within a dream.

No dream would feel this real, Eivor thinks, as the soft furs leave his hands. It’s too tangible. Too familiar, yet not at all. 

“What is this place?” He speaks quietly, as though someone might appear in the next moment to pull him from his trance. There is no answer. He inhales deeply, a powerful aroma of incense now mixing with the woodfire and the smell of cooking food - he should be hungry, Eivor imagines, but he feels no such thing. It’s odd. He’s used to waking up with bruises and aches, cuts on his fingers, a rumbling hunger as he finds a slim opportunity for his next meal -- but none of that has found him here. He feels entirely whole, unharmed, as though walking anew from the well of life itself. Existing is effortless, and Eivor isn’t sure that he likes it.

Still, he presses on, making his way down this hallway that stretches out before him. He can see a set of heavy doors waiting for him, beautifully carved and stained. He could lose himself in the details for hours if he wanted to, but Eivor’s curiosity is insatiable, and the closer he moves to the doors, the more he can hear the sounds of chatter and laughter from outside. He reaches the doors, pausing for a brief moment to press his palm flat against the wood. It’s very real. He can feel the woodgrain, the smooth finish of the paint and stain beneath his skin. Soft lines of sunlight land upon Eivor from between the faintest of cracks in the wood, and Eivor can see the barest hint of people outside. He pushes the doors open. 

Sunlight floods over him in a torrent, warming his skin right through as though he’s passed through a waterfall made of nothing but radiance. He feels reinvigorated, a strength surging through him, one that might trick him into thinking he could tangle with Jormungand itself, and it is a dizzying feeling. When his vision settles, he can see throngs of people - warriors, all standing there with shields upon their backs and axes at their sides, mugs of mead in hand as they converse and jest, oblivious to Eivor’s presence. At least, until Eivor begins to walk on in, drawn by his boundless curiosity to seek out the truth to this strange place, then he hears greetings being thrown his way by names and voices he does not know. They call him drengr, they welcome him to the halls as one of them, and in his stuttering heart of hearts he understands that this is Valhalla - a Valhalla that Sigurd had promised him. 

“Lead us to glory, Havi!” Sounds from within the crowd as he walks through. It almost stops him in his tracks, but not quite. His steps falter, head turning to seek out the voice that carried those words to him, but he finds nothing in the sea of warriors. Only the faint singing of battle-hugr thrumming in the shared blood of these warriors, and they are eager to spill more. Eivor grits his teeth against the thoughts of Havi that echo around his own, pressing on through the crowd. Eventually, the gathering of warriors thins out enough for Eivor to spot a familiar pelt, the shock of red hair and sprawling ink adorning Sigurd’s head, and he feels his heart lift as he almost runs to greet him. He slows only when he realizes Sigurd doesn’t stand alone - a woman looks past his brother and straight at him, her eyes kind and knowing, lips lifting into a smile for Eivor as she greets him.

“Eivor, Tyr said you would come,” She speaks softly, and Sigurd turns to face him too, smiling, at peace. A true peace. Eivor swallows, unable to find the right words between the rapidly unravelling threads of his understanding which diminishes with every moment he spends here. The woman laughs gently, and bows her head to Eivor. “Welcome.”

Eivor looks a little harder. He recognises the eyes, the strange feeling of being watched like she knows everything there is to know about him. Valka has the same look. It’s this connection that suddenly sparks to life a slew of memories from Heillboer, ones that he’d long forgotten - this is Svala, as she used to be. Not the husk he remembers from Valka’s hut in Fornburg, but the true Svala, the one who spoke of portents and Yggdrasil as fire and rage rained down upon them in Heillboer. 

“Svala?” Eivor asks, daring to step forward. 

Her smile grows brighter, and she nods to him. “You have a keen eye, Wolf-Kissed.” 

The confirmation sits uneasily on Eivor’s shoulders, like he’s found a secret he isn’t supposed to know. 

“After all this time, Eivor!” Sigurd interrupts his thoughts, and as he gestures towards Eivor like he’s about to bring him in, Eivor sees that his arm is whole again. Eivor hears a passing mention of Freyja and talk of raising a horn in celebration, but Sigurd’s words remain in pieces as Eivor stares at his arm, then back at his brother, confusion written on his furrowed brow.

“Sigurd, what is all this?” Eivor looks around him, “And your arm has returned -- and your vigour, it seems.”

Sigurd reaches out to him with a laugh, with his right arm, and Eivor finds himself doing the same. They meet as they once did, arms clasped together, eye to eye, Sigurd with an unspoken promise of glory unfound, Eivor with reverence for a brother he’s only ever known how to follow. Sigurd taps Eivor’s chin with a pointer finger, like he used to when they were children and Eivor wasn’t paying attention.

“Glory eternal, Eivor! Here, we dine in the great hall of the slain, at long last.” Sigurd announces, pride enshrouding him like a stubborn halo. Eivor finds himself missing Sigurd’s joy entirely, landing somewhere between confusion and comfort. He feels almost at home here, there is familiarity to be found even in the strangeness of this place, a reassurance in how real it all seems - but doubt creeps in ever closer, the longer he dwells. To stand in the hall of the slain requires a death, and Eivor has suffered none. 

But as he thinks overlong on his missing death, the thought is stolen away by his surroundings. He didn’t notice at first, but now it seems they have a golden shimmer, a deep and burning everlight that holds a perpetual warmth and a faint… singing? As though whispers are woven into the very walls of this open hall. They call to him, like a soothing lullaby, and all thoughts of endings are simply washed away. 

“This is…” Eivor turns to take in the sight as Sigurd releases his hold on him, “This is all so beautiful.”

Sigurd looks as though he might say something then, but a great horn blows through the hall before he can speak. It reverberates through Eivor, through the metal of his armour, making the axe on his belt rattle. When did that get there? Eivor turns to face Sigurd again, and there at the end of this hall, a set of great, towering doors begin to open. Eivor feels as though he’s seen this before - in Asgard. The first of many battles he remembers there. But then Sigurd is pulling at his arm, guiding him to follow, and then he’s running side by side with his brother into the golden fields, axe ready to spill raven-wine, enough to feed Synin a thousand times over. It is freeing, his axe taking life without consequence, for no life lingers here with the same gravity as it does in Midgard, in the land of the living. Ties have already been cut, hopes and dreams already achieved in this golden hall. Regret is a thing of a past lifetime. Now, there is only the thrill of battle, though it ends abruptly with Sigurd’s scream and a missing arm today, Eivor knows it will be there again tomorrow.

And so Valhalla sings, red with endless death, day in and day out, until Eivor cannot remember where it began and has no notion of where it will end. 

The first day is glorious. The second day is almost as good. The third, Eivor sees the golden lustre has begun to wear thin, revealing the smallest of fractures in its gilded walls. By the seventh, the blood Eivor spills is as thin as water, the grass as dry as bone despite the onslaught, and to hear Sigurd’s pained scream like clockwork is as painful as the arrow that strikes his eye the moment he lingers too long on his brother. White hot pain and blindness consume him at the end of each day, until he wakes again, renewed. 

The eighth day, he wakes. The sunlight isn’t as warm as the first day. The furs feel dry and rough under his touch when he pushes himself upright again from meaningless sleep that he doesn’t need, to rest a body that never hungers or tires. Eivor has forgotten what the colour green should look like under the sun. The smell of smoke is empty, and now it only irritates him as it drifts in through his doorway as it does every morning in this place. The desire to get up and walk out to the endless battle has left him entirely, and he sits there, head in his hands as he thinks on what he has seen.

Every memory that comes to him now is plagued by a golden light that hurts, blinding, obscuring what he wishes to recall in perfect clarity. But he tries, and he sees his father’s axe held by a man who looked too much like Varin himself, cutting down warrior after warrior on the field. Eivor hadn’t believed it at the time -- Varin did not find Valhalla, of that, he is certain. He died a coward. There was no other answering call for him other than the cold winds of Helheim. Another memory shows him the familiar silhouette of Vili, wielding his greataxe against a towering foe. His laughter is a ripple of light across the grass, finding Eivor the way it always does, but it leaves Eivor reeling in confusion. Vili had not come close to death - not since that elk speared him in the chest years ago, so why does he stand here, clear as day? After that, Eivor began to see too many wrongs in this supposed paradise, and it has become forever stained. Its gilded halls are false, an illusion, a sweeter version of existence for those who no longer wish to endure it. 

Now, Eivor only wishes to leave. No aches or pains plague him, but his entire body feels like a dead weight as he sits there, thinking of these people he loves. He cannot go to them, nor can they find him here. Right now, Eivor can’t think of anything worse. He feels something digging into his side - at first he thinks it’s one of his axes, but they, for some reason, never appear until he needs them, right before the gates to the golden fields. Frowning, he reaches to pull at whatever it is, and his hand closes around an old hunting knife, blunt and worn with age. He pulls it into his lap, one pointer finger set on its blunt end, the other spinning the worn handle slowly as he looks it over. A gift from Varin in his eighth summer, when he was too young for an axe but already crowing for blood, eager to prove himself. It sits somewhere in Ravensthorpe now, buried in an old box in his room. 

“Eivor! You have a guest.” Sigurd’s voice fills his room, but Eivor can’t bring himself to look. He only sighs, tilting his head the barest amount to show he’s listening. 

“You should have knocked first.” Eivor murmurs, a flat response that once would have been shaped by humour, a memory of old times when Sigurd would walk in on one too many situations he shouldn’t have.

Sigurd laughs, spreading his arms out. “Nonsense, I’ve brought you someone. Look.”

Eivor doesn’t, but he hears a voice he wishes never to hear again.

“My Eivor!” That earlier memory of Varin is no longer obscured. Even out of the corner of his eye he sees his father’s face, as beaming and proud as the day he left him for good. “What a warrior you have made of yourself…”

He wouldn’t know, he’s _dead,_ Eivor thinks bitterly, the sour taste making his lip curl, brow furrowing sharply as he snarls out his next words. “And how did you find your way here?”

There’s an awkward silence hanging between them as Eivor continues to twirl the dagger between his pointer finger and his hand, only daring to watch this unfold out of the corner of his eye. To face it head on… Eivor doesn't think he can do that. 

“You remember our great battle?” Comes Varin’s answer. “You remember how we fought, side-by-side, with your mother and Sigurd and our clans united?” 

What Eivor remembers isn’t the clash of steel or the shattering of shields. He remembers a frightened child, too weak to hold a sword and yet, he’d killed a man with one. He remembers Sigurd and his mother, fighting for his survival that he’d risked for the sake of being with his parents. Why? Because he loved them.

He looks up, and it’s Styrbjorn staring back. _“He loved you. That’s all.”_ And then Varin is standing where he stood. At last, Eivor looks Varin in his eyes, and finds them empty.

Soon after, his blade finds Varin. There is a dull thud as his father’s body hits the ground, and only then does Eivor rise, stepping slowly over to Sigurd who looks on him with disdain.

“Have you lost all your love for life?” He asks. Eivor looks up at him, tongue tied with rage and disbelief. Has Valhalla finally robbed Sigurd of all his sense? His fingers tremble, no longer focused on the dull blade of his hunting knife. What life is this that Sigurd speaks of? This empty, endless existence shaped in a mockery of his destiny? This is no life. There is no love here. He circles around the body of his father on the floor, looking at Sigurd with a warning etched deep along the lines of his anger.

“That was not my father, that was a lie.” Eivor points out. 

Sigurd seems unfazed, settling his hands on his hips as he regards Eivor with a look he might have given to a child disobeying blatant orders. Not his brother. “That was not a lie, that was my gift to you.”

Eivor doubts that. There is something more to it.

“I have power here, and I can do as I please.” Sigurd reminds him. Eivor thinks that sounds more like Sigurd of late, and he believes that far more than he does the pretense of a gift. Sigurd knows the weight Varin has left on Eivor’s heart; he would not call this a gift in his right mind. 

“You wished to see your father, and I made it happen.” Sigurd gestures to the cold body between them, “As easy as breathing.”

Eivor looks down at the body. No blood spills from the eye where the knife is embedded. No wounds or earthly marks adorn his skin otherwise, and Eivor tires of looking at such an unnecessarily perfected recreation of a father he once loved. He wills it away, and watches Varin crumble into dust.

“By Odin’s laws, my father is not allowed in this place. I do not wish to see him where he should not be.” Eivor murmurs quietly, arms folding tight across his chest as he feels the first of many cracks in his armour starting to show. If he must hold himself together, so be it. He will not bow to this. He will not crumble to false realities, not when his own has made him fight every step of the way just to survive. He hears Sigurd’s footsteps drawing closer before he sees him appear on his peripheral. The air is heavy with words unsaid, and Eivor hopes it is Sigurd realizing his mistake.

A moment later, Sigurd reaches out to Eivor, settling a heavy hand on his arm. “Your father died doing what he hoped would save you. He died to protect you.”

Why must everyone speak of this now? Eivor grits his teeth, feeling his eyes beginning to sting. Why did they let Eivor believe otherwise for seventeen winters? The thought has grown from a harmless root into a sprawling sickness, a bitter poison that he carries in his blood with no way to drain it from him - and now to be told that he is wrong for what he believes? It hurts. It hurts more to know that Sigurd isn’t wrong. That Styrbjorn wasn’t wrong. 

“Leave me.” Eivor demands, voice crumbling as soon as it leaves his lips. 

Sigurd remains in place. His grip tightens on Eivor, and he pulls Eivor to face him. Eivor won’t look at him, turning his face away to hide the shame he feels, to hide the angry tears he refuses to shed in this sacred hall, no matter how empty it is. Sigurd isn’t having any of it, his hand gripping Eivor’s chin with a gentleness Eivor has forgotten he ever possessed. It invokes an old memory of a stone cairn, two great stacks - one for Kjotve, one for Varin - and a newfound brother who had no choice but to console a grief he didn’t understand. 

“This is the end of our road, Eivor.” Sigurd says, and Eivor has never heard him sound so weary. “This is Valhalla, the eternal golden field… Come. Battle beckons for my berserkr, it will fill your blood with song.” 

Sigurd lets go, and Eivor feels as though his last tether to this forsaken dream has been wrenched free. He must leave. He follows Sigurd out to the golden fields one more time, but this time it will be to bring him back. 

One last time, Eivor hews through nameless warriors, watering the grass with illusory raven-wine for flowers that will never grow. He does this until he hears Sigurd’s scream, and turns to find his brother kneeling there, his arm missing once again. He waits for the arrow to find his eye, and pulls it free with a scream of rage, succumbing to the searing pain and blindness once more. This time, he does not help Sigurd to his feet again. This time, he stands above him, one-eyed and bloody, and begs.

“Sigurd, this is a trick. An illusion - you know this.” Eivor gestures around him, “Leave with me now, and return to England with me. Our people need us.”

Sigurd kneels in silence for a moment, blood-drenched. Then he pulls himself to his feet, and his ire turns on Eivor. “No. I am no-one in that world. I am somebody here! Powerful, capable… a god. Here, I may live forever. Here, I cannot die.”

So, this is the real truth, Eivor realizes with a bone-chilling clarity, and it stands out plainly surrounded by all these lies. Sigurd sought Valhalla to become someone worthy. Eivor’s expression softens, not with pity, but with understanding. Both of them have lived in shadows of greater lives, seeking glory with reckless abandon to prove that they could be something better. Fate would bring together two sons, both spurned by the decisions of their fathers that would chase them into a destiny both believed to be their birthrights. In the end, it was simply nothing. But haven’t they built something together now, something worthy? Ravensthorpe was Sigurd’s dream, England a greater ambition beyond that - one that Eivor can almost taste, it’s so close. They deserved better, and so they made it. They made their own fate. They will not die and be forgotten, not now.

Eivor wishes Sigurd would see that. He steps back, looking around at the battle that rages on without cause or consequence. Looking back at Sigurd, he clenches a fist, willing them to stop, to cease. Moments later, silence falls on an empty field, with only Sigurd and Eivor standing in it. 

“You must die, Sigurd. We all must.” Eivor speaks softly, “The only thing that never dies is the reputation of those who are gone.”

Sigurd is watching. Listening. Eivor steps closer again and reaches out to Sigurd, a hand resting on his shoulder. “In here, you have no reputation. You are as insignificant as any blade of grass in this field.” Eivor frowns, shaking his head. “And that’s not you, brother. I know it isn’t. I have followed you for a lifetime, me and many others. You have lost your way of late, but out there…” Eivor pauses, seeking out Sigurd’s gaze.

“Out there, it’s not too late to come back. You know this place is empty. This is not the taste of battle we deserve, Sigurd. You know it.” 

Sigurd closes his eyes, grimacing. There is a truth before him that he simply doesn’t wish to see, but Eivor knows Sigurd is no liar. He will face it, even if he doesn’t like it. Eivor brings his other hand to Sigurd’s other shoulder, holding tightly.

“Am I destined to follow you everywhere, until the end of my life?” Sigurd asks. It takes Eivor by surprise, but that is not something he can answer. That is up to Sigurd. Eivor has made his choice. 

With a sigh, Sigurd nods. “All right. We go.” He says quietly, and reaches up to grip Eivor’s forearm, squeezing lightly. A familiar gesture between brothers, and one that lifts Eivor’s heart to see. He smiles, releasing Sigurd from his hold, and turns to lead them out of Valhalla.

“No! You stay!” A voice crashes into him from behind, a Niflheim wind to the back of the head - its chill steals Eivor’s breath from his throat, the quiet pang of fear and familiarity encasing his skin in ice. “I do not give you leave to go!”

And then Eivor sees nothing at all.

* * *

Once more, Eivor wakes. This time, it is in darkness, save for glimpses of refracted light scattered across a rippling surface. Eivor plants his hands flat beneath him, pushing himself up in one harsh motion. Where he felt weightless before in the golden halls of his false Valhalla, he feels like there are weights now tied to every bone that makes up his weary frame, bowing his back, his shoulders, willing him to break. Even the air is heavy and hard to breathe.

“Why leave this place?” The question echoes all around Eivor, sourceless, but from a voice he knows well. Where is Sigurd? Where is his way out? Eivor turns on the spot, finding nothing but empty darkness in every direction, sprawling out into a vast expanse that makes him feel entirely insignificant. Unimportant. 

“A glory that you fought so hard to find…” Another echo. Eivor’s teeth grind against a biting remark, and he begins to walk forward, aimless but intent on finding a way out. He’s stopped by a figure rising from the shadow and smoke, taking a familiar form half-hidden in the deep hood of his cloak, a dark eye glinting from beneath its shadow. Odin shakes his head, looking down on Eivor with a resonant disapproval. “Walk with me.” He demands, and Eivor feels his feet take him after Odin, despite his mind screaming otherwise. An axe sits in the belt at his side, and it is heavier than any axe he’s known. 

Eivor follows Odin through a myriad of light and colour, each forming a shape of a memory that Eivor knows well. The day he got his scar, the outline of the wolf’s kiss that would forever rend him marked. Kjotve, the summit of his rage that had sent a red river running through Rygjafylke. The first king Eivor uplifted on English soil, alongside the Ragnarssons. The day he found Sigurd after Fulke’s betrayal. Each and every one of these moments Eivor recalls with perfect clarity, and they do not falter - as though they are carved into stone, able to weather the storms of Eivor’s turbulent life. Like they were always meant to be there. A journey of inevitable outcomes, and Eivor strings his life between them like a song to be played by the skalds. And here he walks alongside Odin, the mad one, the one who had thrown loyalty aside to secure a selfish future by avoiding Ragnarok. In the end, he lost himself almost entirely, and Eivor watched it all happen. 

They walk for a while, Odin recalling deed after mighty deed, but the words ring hollow for Eivor. Eventually, they stop, and a great gate rises out of the dark to greet them. A familiar gate. The very one Eivor had seen in his first vision, a promise of Valhalla and betrayal. 

“Take your place in my hall, Eivor. You have earned it.” Odin tells him, but something twists in Eivor’s gut. This would be his doom, not a glorious end. This would lead him nowhere. 

Eivor shakes his head, stepping away. Odin moves and blocks his path. “My people need me. Stand aside.”

The darkness around them suddenly grows, the shadows turning black, the fractal splinters of light fading out entirely. The runes upon Odin’s cloak glow a faint blue, lighting up his eye beneath his hood as he strides towards Eivor, a storm brewing on his very shoulders. 

“I gave you everything you ever wanted, everything you needed!” Odin roars, but Eivor stands his ground, defiant to the last. 

“You gave me nothing!” Eivor growls, “It was all me! I chose their fates, and I will choose mine!” 

Gungnir flares a brilliant blue, matching the aurora of Eivor’s angry gaze, and Odin slams his spear into the ground between them. The shockwave sends Eivor stumbling back as the force hits him square in the chest, pulling the breath from him.

“Everything you believe in stirs before you!” Odin gestures around him to the vast expanse, to the gateway that lingers behind him, “Yet you question all! You question the gods! _You question me!”_

It is a long and difficult fight. Eivor feels like it might never end, but each time he’s sent crashing to the ground, he forces himself up again. He feels blood streaming from his nose, he can taste the iron on his tongue. His fingers ache, unable to grip his axe - Varin’s axe, not his - properly. His ribs ache with every crushing blow Odin delivers, and he’s sure he won’t stand again when Odin makes him fall once more.

But he hears a voice behind him now, a warmer one. A kinder one. Sigurd. “Eivor, stand!” 

Eivor knows he should, but he’s tired. He’s _tired._ He has fought too long, in life and in this in-between, and there is nothing to show for it. He cannot hold Odin’s ire at bay and keep his own in check, he cannot keep walking through where Odin stumbled and fell - he is not a god, he is just a man. And men break far more easily than gods. 

“Eivor! Get up!” Sigurd pleads again. Eivor lifts his head wearily, eyes squinting against a bright light on his peripheral. He sees another doorway here, further away, but… open to him. And Sigurd stands there, reaching out to him. He has to try.

He reaches for his axe, an old, ingrained habit. It’s heavy when he picks it up, but Eivor doesn’t care. He faces Odin, then he turns and makes a break for Sigurd and the door. It’s just within reach, Sigurd’s hand is so close--

“Your place is here!” Odin screams, the sound multiplied across a thousand voices all around him. Eivor feels the weight in his axe suddenly lift, and then it’s almost wrenched from his grip, his shoulder screaming in agony as he’s pulled backwards by nothing, golden light spilling from the axe until it almost burns. But no matter how much Eivor wills it, his fingers are numb and frozen to the haft. Muscles burning, blood thumping in his head, Eivor comes to a skidding stop at last where he’s left gasping for breath. The axe… he drops it, feeling returning to his fingers in that moment. Odin growls somewhere above him, displeased. Good, Eivor thinks, and rolls to his front to push himself up again. 

“Take up your axe!” Odin shouts, “Wield it like a true warrior!” 

Eivor is tired of listening. He turns back to the door, and he sees two figures standing there now - Sigurd is one, the other… unmistakably Vili, shouldering open the heavy door while Sigurd waits for him. Eivor’s heart feels ten times lighter in that moment, like he had forgotten hope until now. He breaks into a run, ignoring every aching part of his body that protests. He reaches out again, and this time he finds Sigurd’s arm in his.

_“TAKE UP YOUR AXE--”_ Odin’s voice becomes entirely deafening, rattling through this empty space. Eivor feels Sigurd pulling him, but now his entire body has grown impossibly heavy. Eivor lets out a strangled scream, frustration spilling out between gritted teeth as he’s torn in two, between two worlds. He feels a strange sensation closing in on him from behind, some innate sense of self-preservation kicks in as he swings his free arm out, releasing the hidden blade into the oncoming shadow. He hears Odin’s scream of agony, feels the thud of a body hitting the ground. He’s just about able to turn his head to see a furious one-eyed glare peering up at him from the shadowed floor, moments before Gungnir’s glow alerts him to Odin about to slam his spear to the ground again. The shockwave hits, tearing his grip from Sigurd, sending him to his knees again. 

“Coward of cowards!” Odin’s words are desperate now, and Eivor can taste freedom. If he can just hold on, just a little longer…

Strong arms find him. A tattooed hand grabs his bicep and pulls him up with ease, bringing Eivor’s arm over sturdy shoulders, where his hand sinks into black furs, soft and strangely familiar. Eivor’s shoulder aches at the sudden adjustment, he’s holding onto someone taller and stronger than him, and it’s disorientating--

“Stand with me, Eivor.” Vili murmurs into his ear. The mind-fog is blown away, leaving his vision crystal clear once again, and Eivor almost sinks with relief. Vili would pull him from Hel itself, of course he would. Sigurd returns to his other side, reaching for his other arm, and Eivor manages to walk again, held up by Vili and Sigurd. The light that spills through the door is warm and soothing, a balm for the aches and cold cuts of Hel that have laid claim to Eivor’s body and mind. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he tries. More and more shapes drift into focus between the blinding shafts of light that pierce the dark - most are familiar, instantly recognizable. Randvi. Hytham. Gunnar. People he’s forged bonds with, people he wishes to return to. 

But there are two who stand front and centre, hands outstretched towards him. Eivor knows them, he knows them like he knows himself. Without question. He sees his father’s eyes, and his mother’s smile. Their hands held out before him, just as they would reach for him in Heillboer after he climbed too high on the longhouse. He misses their safety. Their promise of love, unconditional. He only needed to exist, and that would be enough for them. 

Eivor has never felt like that since - not truly. 

The ache in his chest carries him forward, close enough that he can let go of Vili and Sigurd for long enough to find his parents instead. He buries his face in Varin’s pelt as Rosta embraces him, and if Eivor keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend this is something like home. If he stays there, he can almost smell the stew on the fire and hear the clatter of rocks as careful hands teach him how to build his own cairn. It hurts to have a heart that relies on brutal truths to get by, because he knows this is only a momentary peace. This will end. He will return to a life without them, and the grief will still be there when they are gone. 

Slowly, but surely, he feels them beginning to pull away. Resisting every urge to hold on tighter, Eivor lets them. Vili is still there standing beside him, waiting, as is Sigurd. He can leave. He’s free.

He takes a step forward.

“Leave now, and you are nothing!” Odin returns, his grip ice cold around Eivor’s wrist, wrenching him around to face him. Eivor looks upon his face and sees a tired old man, desperation in his one-eyed stare. He’s shaking, his form strangely corporeal - despite everything Eivor ever believed. He’s afraid. Eivor doesn’t know what to say, and his breath catches in his throat like a death rattle. 

“With me, you have wisdom! Glory! Power! What more do you need?” He is begging now, a god to a human. Yet, Eivor sees nothing in his words worth holding onto. What do those things matter without people to share them with? It would be meaningless, just like this false existence Odin wants to trap Eivor in. He would not suffer another day in this Hel. 

A suffocating silence falls. Eivor pulls his arm out of Odin’s grip, and his words echo over Odin.

“Everything else.”

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally we have some vili, i promise he’s an actual main character in this

Biting back a shiver, Vili wraps his arms tighter around himself as he sits leaning against the prow of the ship. The cold has begun to bite now that night is encroaching, slow and steady with the promise of a restless watch awaiting the crew. They’ve hunkered down under the ship’s makeshift tent, staving off the worst of the cold just by being crammed together under the canvas, but Vili can feel their patience is running thin as their worries begin to shout in their whispers. They worry for their jarl. He can hear the murmurs rippling through the huddled bodies like a ripple cast from a stone, but Vili finds he cannot tell which brother they are speaking of. His mind tells him it must be Sigurd, he is their Jarl in name, but he’s seen the way these people look at him - with respect, yes, but there’s something else there. It’s not fear, but it’s close enough. They look upon him the way they might embrace a god made human - with reverence always shrouded by the knowledge that one wrong move would get them killed. 

His heart tells him they speak of Eivor. He’d spoken to many at the feast they held just before leaving for Norway, mostly to introduce himself, partly to find some new dirt to muddy his friend’s hair with. Nothing serious, only fun, a reminder of sweeter days when their worries never stretched beyond their immediate surroundings. He has missed his Eivor dearly, and the thought of being surrounded by people who might know Eivor better than him… well, it stung. Vili isn’t too proud to admit that. Regardless, the night had only confirmed one thing: these people adored Eivor as much as he did - as much as he  _ does, _ even now. A small smile pulls at his frozen mouth, but he reaches up with his numb hands to hide it, blowing warm air between them as he tries to reignite some feeling in his fingers. Vili has always been one to follow his heart, and this is no different. He knows they speak of Eivor, and he can only hope that Eivor will return to them. 

“Will somebody find me a stick to prop myself up with? I will fall asleep entirely otherwise.” Rollo pokes his head under the canvas at the far end of the ship, cheeks bright red from the cold. He’s on a watch, Vili knows, but he’s got no notion of how long it’s been while he’s been tucked under the canvas, out of the cold. 

“I will keep you company,” Vili stands, “I need a change of scenery, or I’ll start counting the rings in the woodgrain. Out loud.”

Rollo’s laugh floats along the deck of the ship as he disappears back out of sight, and Vili pulls himself out of the ship to join him. The air stings as he leaves the relative comfort of the covered longship, but it is a beautiful, clear night overhead, one that he hasn’t seen for a long time now. He takes a moment to appreciate the drifting colours, the hidden jewels of this northern land he so loves, and before his memories drift to Eivor’s voice in his ear pointing out all the stars, Vili makes his way to Rollo. 

“What’s this?” Vili nudges the poor excuse of a campfire Rollo’s constructed, tucked a little inland and out of reach of the waves. 

Rollo huffs. “I am a warrior, battle-bred. I didn’t pay much attention to anything else.” 

Vili’s boots crunch over the snow as he finds the small stack of dry wood that Rollo’s stashed up - some from the boat, some from the shore, or so he says - and begins to rebuild it.

“Drengr should be good at surviving in every situation, not just the ones that end in rolling heads.” Vili echoes Trygve’s words to him, long ago. Hemming had taught him to fish, and to hunt, to wield axe and blade and paint the ground with raven-wine, but even he could overlook the simpler things in life. Trygve had patience of an earthly nature, one that Vili has scarcely found in others. Not a day goes by where Vili doesn’t find a reason to be thankful for it. 

“Ah, spoken like one who knows!” Rollo beams at him from across the growing fire, and Vili gives a faint smile in return. This young one had been the source of most of their stories on their sea-crossing, with Eivor too distracted to delve for his own, and Finnr insisted on telling the same one every other day that passed until the crew loudly intercepted. 

“It was knocked into my thick skull eventually, yes.” Vili places the last of the sticks so they lean onto the fire, his face lit up by the flames before he sits back and digs out a spot amongst the rocky shore. “These coasts suffer an endless tirade from Njord, by sea and by wind. This kindling needs room to breathe…” He stacks a few sturdy stones into a solid wall against the sea-breeze, “Then we may have a fire that lasts the night.”

He rests back in his spot, elbows resting on his knees as he stares into the sputtering flames, lost in his worry. He hears the grind of stone under boots, and there’s a soft rush of air as he feels Rollo take a spot on his side of the fire, out of the wind. 

“Worried?” Rollo asks bluntly, his sing-song voice falling into a strange and sombre tune. Vili gives him a sidelong glance. Aren’t they all? He nods. 

“You spoke your stories on the ship as though Eivor would remember them. You grew up together?”

Astute little man, Vili thinks. Well, hardly  _ little  _ \- he towers over Eivor, a sight that Vili finds plenty entertaining, more so with the knowledge that Eivor could have Rollo buckled in a heap on the ground if he so wished. He turns to the younger man, levelling his gaze on him. “For a time, yes. It was a more peaceful existence, I suppose, if you don’t count the chickens we lost and the old ladies we terrorised.” 

Rollo snorts, flipping a smooth, flat stone between his hands. “I knew you had a wicked look to you. This was back… here? Norway?”

“We roamed the roads between Fornburg and Stavanger often,” Vili sighs, picking up a discarded stick from in front of him, “He cannot have been more than ten winters when I first met him, yet he seemed far older. Strange, I thought at first, but he has a way about him. Makes you want to follow.” 

“Hah, I believe that!” Rollo chuckles gleefully, eyes bright. “Do you know, he found me in a backwater brothel in Colcestre. ‘I’m here to collect you,’ he said to me, while I was trussed up like a hog from the rafters.” 

Vili laughs, picturing the scene. “And did he?”

Rollo beams, skimming the rock away from him across the shore. “By the gods, did he! Saxon boys came a-knocking, but Eivor, he’s a quick thinker. Pretended to be all gracious and let them in, opening the door,” he gestures with a sweeping arm, “Then  _ -bam!-  _ Slams the door right in their faces. Gave us time to climb out of the nearest window and flee, hah.” 

“That sounds like Eivor.” Vili grins wide, recalling old pieces of familiar memories - trouble always found them, but they usually pulled each other out of it, someway, somehow. He lets himself relax, leaning back against a boulder as he finds his own story to share. “I remember this time in Stavanger…” 

It is easy to share stories of Eivor, Vili finds, and it gives him some measure of comfort in the growing chill that seems to creep ever closer, despite the fire now roaring at their feet. The sky grows dark over the mountain, the greens and blues of the aurora falling away and leaving only faint stars in its wake. Not an unusual occurrence, Vili knows, but something about the absence of light leaves him feeling just as empty as the sky. Even Rollo has grown quiet. The winds have died to a near standstill, the fire now roaring upwards instead of being buffeted by the sea winds. Behind them, the gentle lap of the ocean is no more than a whisper. Vili feels his stomach twist in knots, hands growing clammy where they rest at his knees. He looks at Rollo like he wants to say something, but he isn’t sure what.

“It feels as though the eyes of the gods themselves are upon us.” Rollo whispers, staring back at him. Strangely, Vili’s inclined to agree. There’s an eerie calm, a stillness. He doesn’t like it, not one bit. 

“I do not feel reassured by it,” Vili murmurs.

Then he hears the caw of a raven. A sound he knows well. He looks skywards just as Rollo does, and the silhouette of a raven coasts through the inky darkness like a knife through a veil. Is that…?

“Synin!” Vili realizes, and where the sight of her would usually bring him hope that Eivor was near, it turns his blood to ice now. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. He leaps to his feet in a flurry of stone and snow, hauling Rollo up too. He hears the man say something, but it is lost between the pounding beat of his heart in his ears. Looking skywards again, he sees Synin circling above him, usually a sign for Eivor to follow. Vili looks back down and recalls the path he watched Sigurd and Eivor disappear along hours ago - their footprints have been covered by fresh snowfall in the wake of the blizzard that hounded them here, but Vili’s certain he knows the way. 

“Come on, keep your eyes open.” Vili pushes forward, eyes set on the path ahead. They don’t get very far before Vili sees something moving in the distance, a strange shadow - not quite a man, but moving.    
  
“What is that? Is that them?” Rollo calls from behind him, and Vili glances over his shoulder with a shrug, turning quickly back to the path. The knot in his belly only grows tighter and more uncomfortable, he’s forcing his breaths through a thick sludge of fear that seems to seep right in through his skin, into his bones, slowing him the faster he tries to go. He bites back a growl, shoving his boots through the snow, one after the other. Slowly, surely, the figure becomes clearer. The dim light doesn’t colour them true, but Vili can just see the familiar glint of red hair under a sliver of moonlight, Sigurd’s bright pelt easy to pick out in the gloom. Which means the figure hanging off Sigurd’s shoulder, hunched over, dripping dark blood onto the white snow is exactly who Vili hopes it wouldn’t be.

“Eivor!” 

It’s a horrible sound, wrenched from Vili’s throat as he bolts through the snow, leaving Rollo in his wake. Sigurd looks up, bruised and exhausted. Vili can see he’s trembling as he draws close enough to reach, but Vili goes straight for Eivor, hands finding his face - he’s cold and clammy, gaze unfocused. Vili hears a quiet humming - like metal ringing faintly, and he notices Eivor has a vice-like grip on a golden spear in his left hand, draped over Sigurd’s shoulders. Eivor sways dangerously, and Vili looks down to find Eivor’s hand is pressed to his right side, blood dripping out from between his red-coated fingers, soaking his armour. Vili can feel himself go pale, and he moves a hand to cover Eivor’s for a moment. A grievous wound, Vili does not need to be a healer to know that - he’s seen lesser wounds cripple other men. Not Eivor. He would not allow it. 

“What happened?” Vili breathes, voice too fraught with fear to hold its own sound. He looks at Sigurd, who’s beginning to bow under his brother’s weight. Vili grimaces, “Sigurd, I will walk with him -- Rollo, help Sigurd down!”

Sigurd is about to make a noise of protest, but Eivor grumbles something. Sigurd seems torn between his choices, but Vili gives him a reassuring nod, a silent promise that he would not let a single thing happen to Eivor. And Sigurd seems to believe it, groaning in pain as he shifts the weight of Eivor to Vili’s shoulders and stumbles out, half reaching for Rollo who shoulders him up easily.

Vili feels Eivor’s grip tighten around him for a moment. He looks down and finds Eivor’s aurora gaze staring up. For a moment, he considers that’s where the sky sent its light to, but then Eivor’s head sinks against his shoulder, and Eivor grows far heavier in his arms. Shit. Vili holds him tighter, and follows Sigurd and Rollo down the path, Synin cawing overhead as they make their way slowly to the longship. 

He’s walked many roads with Eivor in this life, but this is by far the longest. 

Somewhere in his mind-fog, Vili hears Rollo calling for the crew to lift the awning and get ready to sail. They’ll have to make for Alrekstad, at least for the night and maybe the following day, if Eivor’s injuries are as bad as they look. Sigurd needs to rest too, Vili notices the way he’s stumbling - the footprints he’s following in the snow are awkwardly spaced and half-dragged out alongside Rollo’s set of prints. A fresh storm of questions surges up in frantic waves, Vili’s mind awash with too many thoughts at once. Whatever happened up there was enough to bring two powerful drengir to a retreat, but Vili doesn’t think he’ll get any answers tonight, no matter how much he wishes for them. 

“Rollo, take the helm.” Sigurd requests as the younger man leads him to the ship. Sigurd reaches out to grab onto the hull when it’s close enough, heaving out a struggling breath, head bowed as he grimaces in pain. He pauses there for a moment, and Rollo scrambles into the ship, helping the crew pack away the awning before he’s onto the prow, consulting with Bragi the fastest and safest route to Alrekstad this far into the night. A moment later, Sigurd pulls himself into the ship, then turns, leaning his hand over towards Vili and Eivor, ready to help him in.

“He is weak, Sigurd,” Vili looks up at him, eyes wide, “I can hear his breath rattling.” 

Sigurd’s eyes grow icy. Vili can see how his jaw clenches, and his outstretched hand waves them closer, urgently. “He will not die here.”

“If he…”

“He will _ not!”  _

Vili stares at Sigurd for a long moment, breathing out slowly as he tries to rein his fear back in. Sigurd’s glare turns pleading, and Vili shoulders Eivor close enough for Sigurd to grab onto. Sigurd pulls him up as Vili pushes him, and Eivor makes a weak attempt at grabbing onto the side of the longship himself. Still clinging onto life with gritted teeth, and still not letting go of this strange spear even as Vili tries to take it from him.

“Will you row?” Sigurd asks Vili once they get Eivor onto the ship, bringing him towards the prow where there’s room to lay him down comfortably. Vili looks at his own hands, red with Eivor’s blood. He has to row - they need to get out of here, they need to find safe harbours before another storm finds them, or worse. 

Vili swallows and gives Sigurd a curt nod, looking back over at the jarl. His eyes are shadowed and reddened, there’s a gauntness to his face that speaks volumes of the days he’s spent hiding away in Ravensthorpe, and he just looks exhausted. Vili almost pities him in that moment, and he can’t help but wonder if this was the future he might have ended up with if he had stayed in Hemthorpe. Sitting there as a tired and broken jarl, made weak by the world instead of made stronger for wandering it. 

“Rest with him, Sigurd.” Vili mumbles, before finally standing and making his way to his bench, looking to see if the rest of the crew are ready. There’s a tangible anxiety in the air now, hanging thick like a fog over the ship. It slows everyone to a crawl, faces drawn with fear and voices muffled by the waves slowly returning to life, but they are ready to leave this forsaken fjord, and Rollo gives the order. 

* * *

Eivor hears the faintest lullaby. 

At first, he wonders if it is a song his mother knew. He feels safe here, as though he’s being rocked to sleep. Everything hurts, and his breathing turns to fire in his lungs if he draws too deeply from the air, but nothing else can hurt him here. Something tells him that, even when he can barely open his eyes to see, and the voices on the edge of his perception are as whispers over the wind; stolen away before words can take shape.

But his mother is not here, and this is not a song she ever sang to him. 

Eivor forces his eyes open, wanting to know who this voice belongs to. He knows it. It’s a soft hum, but low, deep - a comforting rumble, like lying in a warm bed with thunder rolling far away. They sing of shining blades and wolf’s teeth, and a weak smile pulls at Eivor’s face. A battle song. It echoes in his blood, chasing away the dull burn of pain that lingers - not entirely, but enough that Eivor feels his breath returning stronger, if only for a few seconds. It’s then that he realizes there’s a faint weight on his chest, right over his heart. A hand. He spies the ink wrapping around nimble fingers, scarred and scratched to Hel. This is a hand he sees more often holding an axe than his heart. 

“Vili…” Eivor doesn’t have the strength to speak. His name comes out in a rasp, but it gets his attention. Dark, ocean-deep eyes are on him a moment later, peering down with concern. He hears Vili shushing him, and his vision begins to swim just with the effort of looking up.

“Rest, Eivor.” Vili tells him, and he looks away for a moment to speak something to someone he cannot see. Then Vili returns to him, brow furrowed. “You were badly wounded. We’re on our way home.” 

Eivor can’t feel relief. He can’t feel anything but this growing numbness, vision drifting out into white light. 

* * *

The next time Eivor wakes, there’s another hand on his chest, curled into a fist. This one has blue ink, runes on each finger, solid bands at his wrist. Sigurd. Eivor blinks his eyes open, finding it much easier this time, and his breaths come to him with less fire in his lungs now.

“There are things about my brother you don’t know,” Eivor hears Sigurd say to someone, “I trust things will be revealed, in time. For now, he is healing because of it, not in spite of it. Trust that, if you will not trust me.” 

Eivor turns his head slowly to see where Sigurd’s quiet ire is aimed. He sees the trail of Vili’s familiar purple cloak, and wonders just what sparked this conversation. Taking another gasp of air, Eivor makes his presence known. “Wh… what’s he griping about now…?” 

Eivor feels two sets of eyes on him instantly. Sigurd’s clenched fist opens into a flat palm, patting Eivor twice on the chest gently. “We are just keeping you alive, brother. We’re halfway to home. Rest.”

“M’tired of… of resting…” Eivor aches all over, worse than the last time he’d woken. He remembers hints of the past few days at sea, constantly rocked by the waves and waking to the smell of crisp, salty sea air. Clear skies ahead, both day and night. The Daughters of Aegir smile upon them still, it seems. 

“Don’t be stubborn, Eivor.” Vili’s words drift his way, spoken lightly and with none of the tension Sigurd held in his own. Eivor lets out a huff of air, an almost-laugh. It hurts more than he expects, and he curls in on his side as the pain shoots through him, head to toe. He feels a steady hand on his shoulder moments before he slips away again, into a softer dark, free of his mortal aches.

* * *

By the fifth day at sea, Eivor is sitting up, still weak, still wounded, but alive. His wound heals strangely - the skin has almost stitched itself together, despite having no poultice or ointment and only the most basic treatment available to a crew at sea. At times, Eivor swears he sees a faint light spilling through the scars, but he wonders if that is the sea-hugr talking. He breaks off a piece of dried fish and brings it to his mouth, eating slowly and surely. His strength is returning, he has no doubt of that. It’s just a lot slower than Eivor would like.

“Look at you, mighty drengr, dozing on his own ship. I think you will have to pay back some rowing time soon.” Vili chuckles from above him. Eivor sits resting against the bench Vili has claimed at the front of the ship. It’s easier to sit here and ride out the waves with his back against something sturdy, and Vili is helping to keep him upright in rougher seas. So far, it’s been bearable. Eivor might admit it’s been made a little nicer by having Vili watch over him. It’s safe here, tucked between his legs with his head resting on his knee, a lazy show of trust that sends a weary heart beating a little faster than usual. And Eivor doesn’t think he’s so full of sea-hugr that he’s imagining the way Vili’s touches linger, careful hands on his shoulders to keep him upright, every so often a mindless brush of the shorn hair at the back of Eivor’s neck, right by his scar that sends a shiver down Eivor’s spine. There’s a quiet reverence in these gestures that makes Eivor feel entirely different.

“Careful, arse-stick, we have plenty of raiding for you to do to earn your keep,” Eivor smiles, fiddling idly with the hem of his tunic sleeve. He’s not wearing his armour - it needs patching up, for a start, but he’s missing the weight of it. The chill doesn’t bite him through the thick wool of his tunic but it leaves him feeling defenseless. Vulnerable. It’s difficult to admit, but every scrape of metal or knock on wood has Eivor jumping, flinching, nerves all strung up and blood singing, ready to fight despite his wounded body. He wonders how much of it is just a defense mechanism kicking in, much like a wounded wolf will snap at anyone getting too close, and how much of it is just a lingering response to a betrayal he never saw coming. Every little noise and gesture Eivor must immediately find reason and rationale for, before his mind considers it another threat - like Basim’s blade piercing his side. Unexpected. Unwarranted. It had blindsided Eivor, more than the entire scuffle that came before it, and he still cannot find the reason for it. The thought hounds him in and out of fitful sleep, and he always sees wolf’s teeth in his dreams.

Eivor’s hands still as he drifts into silent recollection, slowly managing to piece together the way out of Yggdrasil over the last two days he’s been awake. 

He remembers rage and despair, fighting in an eternal round like Skoll after the sun, with no end in sight. He remembers screaming for Sigurd, he remembers Basim’s voice in his ear, his fingers on his neck and over his scar, as if he was trying to pry the skin-deep secrets from a body that belonged to another - or so Basim seemed to think. Eivor shivers.

“Are you cold?” 

Eivor looks up, finding Sigurd looming. But then he crouches in front of him, eye to eye. Eivor shakes his head, flexing the fingers on his left hand for a moment.

“Just… remembering.” Eivor murmurs, not quite able to keep his eyes on Sigurd. “Everything is still clouded in mind fog, but parts of it are clearing.”

Sigurd nods, eyes squinting slightly as he looks at Eivor like he’s trying to unravel some mystery. “And Valhalla?”

That remains clearer than Eivor would like. His mouth twists into a grimace as a question comes to mind. “Do you remember leaving?”

Sigurd inhales sharply, lips pressing together into a thin line. His gaze flickers up above Eivor, to where Vili sits, and Eivor can’t see him but he knows that Vili must be watching like a hawk. Eivor can’t help but find Sigurd’s reluctance amusing - it’s an echo of Randvi’s suspicion, when he’d first brought Vili into the longhouse. Perhaps they had rubbed off on each other after all. 

“Sigurd, he will find out one way or another.” Eivor sighs, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He hears a soft rush of air, like Sigurd’s almost laughing but not quite. When he opens his eyes, he finds Sigurd wearing a weak smile. 

“Then perhaps I should say nothing at all, if Vili likes to share as much as he does.” Sigurd says, shifting a little in his crouching stance so he can lean against the curved wall of the longship. Eivor hears Vili’s laugh above him. 

“Speak freely, you raven-fiends. I cause trouble only for myself.” Vili responds lightly, and Eivor can imagine how he must look - smiling insufferably, eyes crinkled with amusement, even as they glitter with wicked intent. Eivor quirks a brow at the easy conversation between Sigurd and Vili, only remembering snippets of biting remarks and bared teeth in the hazy spots of lucidity over the last few days. Still, he’s not about to complain. The worries of confiding in Vili have long since passed - Sigurd’s choice to return with them was deliberate, Eivor remembers their conversation clearly. Vili will have no reason to doubt their jarl now, not when their jarl is Eivor. 

“That’s a bare-faced lie.” Eivor returns to the conversation, tilting his head to glance up at Vili briefly before he looks back to Sigurd, gesturing for him to speak on. 

“It was… strange. I walked alone through a great emptiness, a cold wind blowing, and I thought, this must be Hel,” Sigurd explains, “But then I heard a voice. I saw a man walking towards me out of the darkness, old and wizened, these bright blue eyes peering out from beneath a dark hood.”

It all sounds familiar. Eivor feels a twinge in his shoulder at the thought, still burning from Odin’s ire with the number of times he’d dragged him through Hel by his axe. He knows the injury doesn’t exist here in this waking world, but just like the way he recalls Havi, he feels these echoes of things like ghosts clinging to his body. 

“He had-- like me, one arm,” Sigurd continues, patting the leather-covered stump, “And I felt a great calm wash over me in that moment. As though I had been waiting for someone to return to me.” 

Eivor hums in thought, nodding for Sigurd to continue.

“I knew him, as he knew me. This titan of war walked with me, and he spoke with a wisdom entrenched deep in pain.”   
  
Eivor closes his eyes, recalling the moment Fenrir’s great jaws closed upon Tyr’s arm. The scream echoes through memory, splintering Eivor’s thoughts like an icy spear until he opens his eyes again, brow furrowed. His hands curl into fists, a lingering anger at Havi’s betrayal still clawing at him no matter how much he tries to distance himself from it. “He was wronged by one he called family, even if he forgave him for it.” Eivor rumbles, voice still hoarse from lack of use, but made harder by his bitterness. 

Sigurd nods, understanding dawning on his face. “A high price to pay for loyalty, but one he gladly gave. He led me to a great doorway filled with golden light and bid me step through, to retrieve what was mine.” 

Glancing up, Eivor finds Sigurd watching him, as if waiting for a reaction. It is slow, but Eivor manages to piece together what Sigurd has given him - the doorway led to him. Tyr would find Havi, as Sigurd would find Eivor; bound inextricably by the weave of fate, no matter how many times each thread must be pulled apart to form the greater pattern of its life. Eivor swallows, chewing on the inside of his cheek as thoughts rush unbidden through his mind, the realization almost overwhelming in its simplicity. He was prepared to fight the gods themselves to unshackle himself from a future that would end with his betrayal of Sigurd, and to suddenly understand that these threads are tangled replications of one another, yet whole and entire in themselves leaves Eivor cast adrift in-between, with nothing left to run from. 

It would not be easy to get used to. 

“So, you  _ did  _ pull me from Odin himself. Bold, even for you.” Eivor manages a weak smile, his poor attempt at humour falling flat on the deck of the ship, caught between Vili and Sigurd as he clings onto life, a strange echo of his ordeal in Odin’s hall with Vili and Sigurd at his side. Sigurd’s hand settles on Eivor’s shoulder, squeezing lightly as he seeks out his brother’s gaze. 

“We are but reflections of a greater whole, brother. I am still Sigurd, and you are still Eivor; two ragged ravens in a saga worthy of the ages. This does not have to change - I realize that now.”

Eivor nods, and it’s hard not to feel drained by the weight of this conversation. A necessary conversation, yes, but Eivor longs for the days where gods were whispered names held in quiet prayer, not thrown about on mortal lips as though they walk among them. Sigurd nudges Eivor’s chin with a gentle fist, another reminder of younger days. Eivor looks up. Sigurd smiles, but it pulls too tightly at the tension that still lingers in his clenched jaw, and Eivor notices it right away.

“And, yes,” Sigurd lets his thoughts slip free, almost a whisper, “If Odin himself wants my best drengr, my  _ jarl, _ he will have to try harder.” He chuckles, fist leaving Eivor’s chin as he stands, moving out of sight along the deck of the ship. Eivor catches the tail end of words directed to Bragi, and then anything beyond that is swallowed up by the sound of waves and creaking wood as the longship carves through the sea. He sits there lost in the sound for a moment, the gentle rocking of the waves almost lulling him back to sleep until he sits up stubbornly, refusing to surrender. They’re almost to Ravensthorpe, a day or so of travel lies ahead, and then Eivor can think about eating his fill of elk and boar, washed down with sweet mead before crawling into a warm bed, safe and sound at home.

“Ugh. Can we go back to make-believe dragons and missing chickens?” Eivor groans, letting his head fall against Vili’s knee again. Vili drifts lazy knuckles up the nape of Eivor’s neck, gently grazing the shorn hair there almost absently, and Eivor wonders if he truly realizes he’s doing it. 

“Well, there _ is _ a chicken back in Ravensthorpe that’s taken a liking to me,” Vili says, and Eivor snorts, only able to manage a thin laugh. Vili nudges him, “I’m being serious, Eivor, we have a connection.” 

“This one will end up on your plate too, you know.” 

“How dare you?” Vili’s voice pitches in mock offense, though Eivor can hear the tremor of hidden laughter, “Ingrid was special!” 

Eivor grins, and lets his eyes close again. The sunlight warms his skin despite the bite of the sea air, turning more and more temperate the closer they get to England’s green shores. He breathes in deeply, ignoring the slight twinge of pain from his healing wound. The air is sharp with salt, the cool breeze almost stinging his throat and nose, but it’s a welcome feeling compared to lying there in a state of numbness, barely alive. And Vili is here with him, looking after him, keeping him comfortable and sane until Valka can look at Eivor properly. Eivor isn’t used to being looked after, not so closely, and if it were anybody else trying, Eivor might have bitten their hand off by now. 

With Vili, Eivor doesn’t mind. In fact, he could get used to it.

Part of him knows he already has. 

Sigurd’s words are still scattered upon his mind like broken glass on stone, the sorry aftermath of the fragile condition of fate colliding against a stalwart pillar of stone. It will take time and careful hands to pick up the pieces. Eivor has no wish to spend his nights alone, picking out the splinters from his clumsy fingers while his back bows under the weight of England, inevitably a burden he’ll bear alone. But now that his mind is free of the lingering fear he held for Norway, his heart feels less like it might shatter at the smallest blow. It beats stubbornly as it always has done, and at last, Eivor might finally allow it some kindness too. He will speak to Vili when they return. He has to. 

Or maybe they will exist in this comfortable in-between they are in now. Able to touch and hear and listen, speaking freely of thoughts that pass behind their eyes, but always separated by the thin line of a conversation that they simply keep forgetting to have. Would that not be safer? Perhaps.

Either way, Eivor falls asleep, wondering idly if this particular thread is one that’s always been waiting. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think from here on out there might be some more explicit canon divergence rather than just me tweaking the timeline a little - just for everyone to be aware, because i know canon can make a break a vibe for some folks. hopefully it won't be too much and will still fit into the theme of the fic, which still very much remains vili/eivor centric despite the uhh [checks notes] sigurd content.
> 
> once again, thank you all so much for following along so far, your comments and love are making this fic even more of a joy to write than it already is <3

The sharp sting of sea-salt is soon replaced by the fresh tang of river water, clear and glittering under a spring sunset. The Nene flows strong beneath the hull of the longship, the soothing lap of water at the wooden sides indicating their road remains unhindered. Eivor watches from his spot leaning against the prow, on his feet - stubbornly, even as his side aches and sends the occasional shock of pain rocking through him. He grips Gungir in his left hand with the spear resting on his shoulder, and he’s half leaning against it, still a little too tired to stand upright for long, but all too sick of being confined to a bench or the floor. 

The spring-sweet smell of wildflowers on the banks and the chirp of songbirds in the trees are things that Eivor considers familiar now, a distinct connection to the new home he’s made here. But the moment he thinks too long on Ravensthorpe, he’s imagining a map before him and the few spaces left in the last kingdom of Wessex that remain. How much longer would they need to fight? How many more allies can they call upon? Eivor has given so much of himself to England, spilled his blood across fields to see kingdoms flourish, and he knows he would continue to do it if clan and kin asked him to.   
  
His gaze wanders to the crew, faces bright with hope and song now instead of forlorn stares. Vili sits among them like he’s been there all his life, and Eivor feels a smile tugging at his lips. 

So be it. As long as he falls with axe in hand, Eivor can make peace with that. He has tasted glory, he has tasted wisdom, he has tasted power -- none of it was sweet. The taste of fresh boar and elk, though? Washed down with Tekla’s mead, accompanied by the bread made by Tarben’s hands - these tangible, real things that his people, his family could give him? That is much sweeter. Eivor even dares to think of the taste stolen from Vili’s lips at the end of a night, made more intense by the clinging woodsmoke, the worn leather of his armour… Eivor could be happy with that. He could be  _ very  _ happy with that. 

Above it all, Eivor feels it would be a worthy life, giving people a home that will outlast him. That drives him now more than glory ever could.   
  
“This spring sun is much sweeter than Norway’s winter.” Sigurd sighs from above him, standing on the prow-shelf as he gazes westwards along the river, in the direction the ship is sailing. Glad to be pulled from his bittersweet melancholy, Eivor gives a quiet laugh, nodding. Sigurd has never been one for the cold, despite the country of his birth. He would be the likely culprit whenever furs would go missing from the hoard back in Fornburg, though some conveniently wound up left on Eivor’s bed and not Sigurd’s own whenever Sigurd got wind of suspicion coming his way. 

“Careful, Ivarr will call you soft if he hears you say such a thing.” Eivor murmurs, thinking briefly of the Ragnarsson’s fate as he recalls Ivarr’s words to him, long ago. Sciropscire had been a mess from start to bloody finish, fuelled in part by Eivor’s rage at losing Sigurd, and Ivarr was the unfortunate tinder to the glowing embers. Ivarr rewarded Eivor with an ugly scar for his efforts, and Eivor sent Ivarr tumbling off a short cliff for a helping of broken bones before he dragged him back to Wesberie. Ceolbert stumbled too close to death at the hands of someone he trusted, and Eivor won’t forgive Ivarr for that. He put glory above clan and kin, a sentiment strangely resembled in the wandering drengir Eivor’s found, tucked away, lost and begging for a death that would lead them to Odin’s hall, long severed from those they loved. A fate he used to covet, but after seeing how empty Valhalla had been, it is a fate he no longer wants to consider. Eivor wonders at how many allies he will have left in England before long, if this is where all roads lead.

“Toothless jibbering.” Sigurd waves his hand, brushing off the notion, but his expression turns thoughtful. “I wonder where the Ragnarssons find themselves now. We have Wessex surrounded, do we not?”

Eivor looks up, tapping the spear into the ground idly as he thinks. It gives off this pleasant, resonant hum as he does, enveloping him in a strange warmth. If Eivor didn’t suspect anything, he’d say it was simply the sun warming him through, but this spear has been a constant echo in the back of his mind since he’s been awake. He remembers it clearly in Odin’s hands, and as he observes the way his own scarred fingers wrap around it, it’s too easy to pretend they are one and the same.

That thought does not sit well with him.

“Eivor?” Sigurd’s boot nudges Eivor’s knee, and Eivor’s attention is pulled back to his brother, the spear reduced to an echoing pulse in the back of his mind again. Raising his brow, Eivor nods. 

“For the most part. Guthrum presses on the border, I imagine he will call Soma to his side soon. Mercia, East Anglia and Northumbria are ironclad in alliance with us, Wessex can’t hope to stand against our wall of steel. It is just a matter of when.” Eivor finds it almost comforting to be relaying these things to Sigurd, even though it feels all so insignificant in the face of what he’s seen. To pluck the threads of the mundane once again is a blessing Eivor almost didn’t think he’d return to.

“Good.” Sigurd smiles proudly, face lit by the sun. This is the return Eivor had dreamed of, he thinks. The ship sings, the air full with rowdy songs and laughter overflowing, spilling across the river as Ravensthorpe comes into view. They return home as victors, ready to forge on to dizzying heights with a certainty behind them that they have seen and overcome something that few others could ever hope to do. Eivor recognizes the pull of glory, the urge to push on with the wind in their sails, but he knows he must be patient. Red-hot steel must be tempered before it can become the blade it’s meant to be.

“Lower the sail!” Sigurd calls, and Eivor has never been so glad to see the welcome sight of home. It’s quiet, the setting sun heralding the end of a working day - another day without their jarl, Eivor notes, but… that would change. Sigurd gave his title up to Eivor back in Norway, both of them bleeding and broken on the altar, Basim suspended above them in another life and another time. A grisly image. Eivor closes his eyes against the sight, letting his thoughts drift away as he feels the longship knock gently against the dock. The songs and laughter turn into rowdy cheers from the crew, eager to be home and safe again. He listens as the sound of footsteps passes from longship to dock and grows quiet, then he feels a solid presence at his side.

“Do you sleep standing up, now?” Vili asks him, and Eivor’s grin returns when he opens his eyes and looks up to find him standing there, waiting.

“With you in my ear? Not a chance.” Eivor knocks Vili in the chest with a fist. He moves Gungnir forward and uses the spear to help him push off the side of the longship. He sees Vili reach out to help him, but Eivor waves him away. “I can walk, I think.” 

Vili looks unconvinced, but he gives Eivor a nod and climbs out of the ship onto the dock where he turns and waits. Sigurd stands next to him, returning from crowing orders at the crew to shift some supplies back into the barracks. Eivor looks at both of them, unable to shake the feeling that they would be continuously pulling him from whatever dark depths he finds himself in over the coming days, because he knows those depths will find him. He has never resurfaced without a lingering fear of being pulled back into the abyss, and even with Gungnir glowing in his iron grip, that darkness is waiting. 

For now though, Eivor can ignore it. He walks to the dockside of the longship and reaches out, and it’s Vili who takes hold and helps him up. Pain shoots through his side again, and Eivor grits his teeth against a groan. Vili notices. Eivor can see his concern immediately in the downturn of his mouth, almost grimacing, and Eivor shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Go carefully, Eivor.” Bragi’s voice drifts over to them, and Eivor turns to see the old sailor hauling a crate from the ship, only stopping to give Eivor a concerned look. Already, Eivor can feel the claws of irritation beginning to rake at his skin; the feeling of everybody watching too closely has never been something Eivor enjoyed, but a whole crew had seen how weak he’d been the entire way back here, and that makes Eivor uneasy. But Bragi only means well, and Eivor knows that. He gives the man a weak smile and a nod, then continues on his way.

“Walk with me.” Sigurd requests, though Eivor doesn’t see that he has much of a choice, because Sigurd immediately falls into step on his right-hand side. Eivor lifts a brow, wondering what he might want to speak of. He gives Vili a sidelong glance, almost apologetic, but Vili only squeezes his shoulder and excuses himself, murmuring something about helping the crew before Rollo drops a crate into the Nene. Eivor watches him go, then continues with Sigurd, Gungnir hitting the ground with a rhythm that helps Eivor walk, however slow and stiff he might be. 

The grass is wet with rain, a shower that must have preceded their arrival, but it brings the smell of damp earth to Eivor’s nose, mixed with the smoke from torches and the faintest hint of metal from Gunnar’s forge nearby. It’s all familiar. Eivor looks around, seeing sturdy wooden buildings - each one built from the ground up, for a purpose, and made to last. A reflection of hope for a future here, Eivor knows. He looks at Sigurd, wondering if he’ll find him waiting to say something, but Sigurd is lost in his thoughts too, looking around at this home they’ve created. It was meant to be something they built together, and there is still a little twinge of grief that plays at worn heartstrings when Eivor thinks of how much Sigurd missed. This was his dream. Eivor had always been content to follow.

Now their places have been switched, and for a time, Eivor thought he’d committed the ultimate betrayal - the one that had been foretold since the beginning. It was Sigurd who convinced him otherwise. It was Sigurd who sat him down, smiling sadly, and spoke of fate and how it unfolds as it’s written, how it will change for nobody. He thought himself a god who could wrestle the tides, but he was proven wrong, and he was willing to accept that. And so Eivor must be willing to lead so that Sigurd might follow instead. 

“I am glad to be… _home.”_ Sigurd sighs wistfully, his gaze eventually landing on Eivor at his side. They walk slowly, accounting for Eivor’s sluggish steps, but it gives them time to appreciate what stands strong all around them. Their path takes them past Gunnar’s forge, gone cold for the night, and the smith works with his back to them until he hears their footsteps approaching. Gunnar turns his head to see, and his face lights up with relief. 

“There you are!” He turns fully, beaming at them with hands outstretched. “Welcome back, my lords. You look…” Gunnar trails off as he catches sight of Eivor, not standing as tall and proud as usual, his left hand gripping Gungnir tightly as he leans on it. Eivor gives him a weak smile, and waves him off.

“It will pass, Gunnar.” He says, shifting his weight to try and stand a little taller. His smile falls into a grimace as the pain flares up again, but he does his best to keep it hidden otherwise. 

“How fares Ravensthorpe, old friend?” Sigurd asks, stepping in. Gunnar schools his face well, but Eivor doesn’t miss the slight rise of his brow, a thinly veiled surprise slipping in as Sigurd regards him like he used to, with warmth in his words. 

“It has been quiet without you two,” Gunnar smiles again, slowly but surely, “We have missed our beating heart! I’ve seen passing visitors, but most have been sorely disappointed by your absence. That, or our Randvi has sent them off with their tails between their legs.”

Sigurd laughs, smile growing wolfish. Eivor’s grin returns, and he nods approvingly. “We should show our faces. She will want to see us.” 

“You more than I, brother.” Sigurd nudges Eivor, and nods his head towards the longhouse. 

“I will see you later, Gunnar.” Eivor smiles his way, and he’s glad to see the man seems to have a shadow lifted from his shoulders as they turn away, towards the longhouse. Eivor’s thoughts turn to Sigurd’s strange statement, and he fixes his brother with a look as they make their way up the path. “What do you mean, Sigurd?”

“Ah, don’t play coy, Eivor. I have seen her mislaid notes. She has a love for you that far outshines anything she ever held for me.” Sigurd murmurs, but his voice is soft, gentle. A strange way to acknowledge such a slight, Eivor thinks. Sigurd slows and hooks his arm around Eivor’s shoulders, and Eivor can feel the faintest rumble of a laugh echoing from Sigurd. Eivor knows what he speaks of, Randvi had admitted this herself - years ago. A gesture Eivor respected then, and still does now. They’d laughed and made peace with it, leaving Grantebridgescire with a friendship made ironclad by honesty. Nothing more since. 

“And I love her, Sigurd, not in the way she might have liked, but it’s no less. Trust me, there is nothing held between us.” 

“Oh, I know,” Sigurd’s mouth twitches, a smile threatening, “I know you love another. I only jest, brother. I care for her, but I know our marriage is… it’s not necessary. It is not good for us.”

Eivor hadn’t expected that turn of thought. Putting aside the accusation that he might love another, Eivor gives Sigurd a look, the obvious question written in his furrowed brow and downturned mouth.

“Randvi deserves to be free of the shackles my father placed upon us. Here, our marriage benefits no-one. Why keep it? She will love others, she should be free to find them.” Sigurd says, and his words keep getting quieter and quieter until Eivor can barely make them out. So many things Sigurd brought to England’s shores with high hopes, and now they are scattered at his feet, broken. Eivor feels a twisted sadness pierce him, and he drops his gaze to the ground.

“I… Sigurd, this feels wrong. That you have sacrificed so much, and--” Eivor begins to argue, but Sigurd squeezes his shoulders and shushes him. 

“These threads are laid before us and we must follow,” Sigurd says, “And for all that I lose, I learn something greater. I still have my life, I still have Randvi, I still have you.” He looks at Eivor with a smile, marked by melancholy, and ruffles Eivor’s hair a moment later. “Do not be sorry for me. My brow-fire has cooled, I see things much more clearly now than I ever did before.” 

Eivor is both saddened and glad to hear those words from Sigurd’s lips. A balance he’d always wished his brother would find, in truth, but to find it at such a cost… it will never feel right. Eivor looks back up at him, searching that ice-bound gaze for any tell, any indication that Sigurd regrets this, but he finds only truth. 

“Everything I did here in England, I did it for you.” Eivor admits, voice impossibly small. He feels like a child again, presenting Sigurd with his poor rewards from his first hunt: a broken reindeer antler hastily bound with twine. Sigurd had laughed with joy, taken the gift and set it in his room in the longhouse, pointing it out with pride to any who passed by. Here and now, Sigurd regards him with the same joy, the same light in his eyes - though tempered by time and grief, it’s still there. 

“I know, little raven, and my heart sings to see what you have given us.” Sigurd lets Eivor go only to gesture around them at Ravensthorpe, lit by firelight and the setting sun. A far cry from Asgard’s golden walls, but it’s a far more pleasant sight to look upon, Eivor thinks. Sigurd laughs, “Don’t look so glum. Come on, before Randvi drags us in by our ears.” 

Eivor manages a weak smile, and presses on.

The warmth of the longhouse is welcome. The fire roars in the hearth, casting a flickering light throughout as smoke rises and curls to the attic and haylofts, and shadows dance upon the walls like a spectral crowd to welcome them home. The tables are laden with empty plates and tipped over mugs, crumbs of bread scattered amidst them as remnants of a great feast come to light. Eivor smiles to himself, a hand trailing one of the tables as he passes by.

“We missed a great feast.” He sighs, a little sad to be witnessing the sombre aftermath that always follows - a ringing silence in the wake of such noise. 

“We will have more.” Sigurd’s reply is certain. “Eivor…”

Eivor turns to Sigurd, and finds him standing by the throne. His chest grows tight, nerves flaring to life one by one until his fingers are almost numb. Sigurd gestures to the seat. “Sit a moment, and rest.” 

“Sigurd…” Eivor manages a few steps towards him and the throne, held back by a quiet, tremulous fear that maybe he isn’t good enough. He’s barely standing on his own two feet. He’s worn thin by conquest, torn in two by a heart that won’t decide what it wants. How can he lead this clan where they deserve? And yet, Sigurd is looking at him with a conviction, a belief that Eivor had only ever seen in the eyes of men looking upon a king. He swallows back the rising tide of denial, and takes the last step towards him.

“For me.” Sigurd requests. Eivor gives him a long look, a silent question.  _ Are you sure?  _ And Sigurd nods, his smile returning. So Eivor takes his place on the throne of Ravensthorpe, the furs warm and inviting, the wood sturdy beneath his weary frame. He grips the armrest with his right hand, as if he needs to be sure this is all real and tangible, and not another vision. Gungnir hums still in his left hand, thrumming with a quiet life - and Eivor swears he feels a pulse, a heartbeat from it. Curious, Eivor’s right hand moves to his chest. The heartbeat he finds there is a perfect mirror. 

He looks at Sigurd, whose smile is frozen there as he looks upon his brother. His jarl. And in another lifetime, his king. 

“Odin is with us.” Eivor whispers. 

Sigurd nods. “I know.” And the faintest light shines about Sigurd’s arm, a blue echo that takes the shape of a missing arm, wielding a sword that Eivor has seen before - as Havi. Tyr’s blade. The relief Eivor feels is genuine, but it’s as if he has just discovered he is not the only one caught in a raging wildfire with no escape.

And yet, Eivor laughs. It’s  _ ridiculous _ . By rights, he shouldn’t be here. By rights, he should have died years ago, when that wolf sunk its teeth into his neck. For all this talk of gods and mortals bending to their will, Eivor can’t help but think if there is such a thing as fate-touched, he would find it difficult to deny he is one. He has been denied his passage to Valhalla at every turn, forced to push on against the relentless current. What else can he do but laugh? He isn’t alone, either. Sigurd’s weary laugh joins his own, and Eivor feels the cutting binds of fear and anxiety begin to fall away, letting him breathe again. 

Very well, he thinks, if fate has carried him this far, Eivor is willing to see where else it might take him. It is out of his hands. It was never held by him to begin with.

“Gift of the gods, you’re back!” Randvi’s voice echoes through the hall, pulling both Sigurd and Eivor from their momentary delusions, laughter bouncing off the walls. They grow quiet, looking for her - her shadow precedes her entrance across the hall, accompanied by two looming figures. Eivor thinks he recognizes them, but caught between the firelight and the gloom, it’s hard to place. 

“Safe and standing tall.” Sigurd confirms.

“Did you…” Randvi’s shadow falls as she rounds the hearth, standing before Eivor and Sigurd, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Eivor looks at Sigurd. Did he? 

“We did, we did.” Sigurd sighs, brow furrowing momentarily as he looks back at Eivor, then to Randvi once more. “But it was not for us.”

The shadows behind Randvi flicker out as their owners pass the hearth too, revealing two faces Eivor knows well. 

“Ivarr, Ubba. Welcome to Ravensthorpe.” Eivor doesn’t bother hiding his surprise, lifting his head to greet them. Ubba gives Eivor a curt nod, a tired smile gracing his face. Ivarr limps at his side, and even he graces Eivor with a scowl that could almost be called a smile in the right light. “I can’t say I was expecting to see you here.” 

“You sound winded, Wolf-Kissed,” Ivarr drawls, “Taking a rest on your jarl’s throne? Didn’t think you had the stones, Eivor.” 

Eivor’s mouth curls into a smile, and not a kind one. Ubba smacks Ivarr in the chest, “Stay your tongue, brother. You remember what happened the last time you faced Eivor?” 

“I could show you again, Ivarr, in case you forget.” Eivor offers. Ivarr’s laugh is brittle, but he sees a glimmer of respect in the man’s eyes as he falls silent, arms folding across his chest. 

“We will speak more of their purpose here, but first… what’s this?” Randvi interrupts and gestures to where Eivor sits on the throne, not quite at ease. Eivor shifts uncomfortably now with four pairs of eyes on him, and he isn’t sure where to look.

“I, ah…” He ends up on Sigurd, who only gives him an unhelpful grin as he turns away and nods to Randvi, as though she knows exactly what he means. She seems to. Eivor sighs, rubbing at his forehead. It’s then that he hears approaching footsteps, a voice calling for people to follow. 

“If it was a secret you were intending on keeping,” Randvi says, smirking at Eivor, “It is no longer safe.” 

There’s a palpable confusion amongst the clan who file into the hall, familiar faces mixed in with new, and there are far more than Eivor remembers leaving Norway to begin with. A testament to how much they’ve grown, he supposes, but it is almost overwhelming seeing how easily they fill up the longhouse now. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of it. Few would be willing to take on such a clan now, and that’s reassuring. 

“Eivor? Randvi? Is everything alright?” Gudmund pushes to the head of the crowd alongside Gunnar, speaking aloud the confusion that seems to be rife in the air. Of course, they’d expected Sigurd sitting here, and not Eivor. 

“Our jarl has returned,” Randvi tells them, taking her place at Eivor’s side, “To lead us forward into an uncertain future.” 

She turns to him then, almost beaming. “Will you speak to your people?”

His people. Eivor isn’t sure that’s right. They don’t belong to him, at all. He leans forward, Gungnir still standing strong at his side, and casts his gaze over expectant faces. Many he’s known since he was a child, they were witnesses to his grief and loss, and they look at him with pride and reverence now. Others came later, seeing only the hardened edge of a scorned son made anew under Styrbjorn’s guidance, but even they regard him less with caution and more with curiosity. And then there are a certain few whose eyes have looked upon Eivor in his worst moments, and still found a light worth holding onto. Vili watches him from besides the frontmost pillar, leaning casually against it, smiling up at him. Sigurd sits beside Vili on the bench in front, and Eivor catches the wink he throws his way, both a challenge and a gesture of reassurance. Eivor smiles too, and he discards the honeyed words of a skald he was about to say. They would not need those. He stands, using Gungnir to help, and looks over the longhouse again.

“You are less mine than I am yours.” Eivor says to them, but his eyes find Vili’s once more. He means it in more ways than one. “And I ask of you only this: keep me honest in the times to come.”

He will learn from Havi. He would not repeat those mistakes. He will be better for it. 

The longhouse is filled with song for hours after. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Morning rises with no regard for the sore heads of the settlement. The sun is pulled into a clear sky, shining out over the green hills of Ledecesterscire as it greets weary revellers, recovering from the night’s celebrations for their new jarl. Tunes are whistled along the dock and into the barracks where raiders stir, ready for another day of work. Children scamper through the paths and laugh as Gunnar warns them away from the forge-fire, narrowly avoiding Rollo and Birna helping to haul the morning catch in from the river. Slowly, the settlement awakes as the sun thaws it out of sleep, and for most, it’s a hopeful kind of morning. 

Vili sits in the longhouse, his back facing Eivor’s empty room like he’s standing guard over a secret hidden within. In some ways he feels as though he is. He didn’t miss the way Eivor looked at him last night, promising himself to his people and his clan as they heralded in their new jarl. And Vili knows Eivor isn’t stupid, he must have noticed how he was behaving the entire way home from Norway, like a lovestruck fool who couldn’t keep his hands away. Maybe part of it was purely a reflection of his own worry, that Eivor wouldn’t recover from the strange wound he’d sustained, but Vili knows there was something else there too. A strange and desperate fear. He’d almost lost him. The thought makes his stomach churn, even now, even after seeing Eivor walk from the boat on his own two feet and sit on Ravensthorpe’s throne with a radiant smile -- he was so close to losing him, forever, and he never would have seen the day. Every time he’d sat with Eivor on the longship, his hand on Eivor’s chest to ensure the rise and fall of his breathing didn’t falter, to ensure his heartbeat remained steady beneath his palm, it was a closeness Vili found himself craving more of each time Sigurd stepped over to take his place. Only, instead of the warmth and security Vili usually found there with Eivor, it was as though they were tethered only by a lingering dread, and it left Vili holding on desperately to ensure Eivor wouldn’t slip away in the night. That he might have returned to Ravensthorpe - a place he ventured in search of a home in Eivor, only to return without him...

Staring down at an untouched plate of food, Vili closes his eyes against the thought of a life without Eivor. If the gods willed it soon, Vili hopes they have the sense to weave his fate alongside and lead him to Valhalla too. His stomach twists with hunger beneath the roiling storm of emotion brewing in his lungs, threatening to spill out in clumsy words the next time he sees Eivor. He picks up the most edible thing on the plate and tears into it, trying to corral his thoughts back under control. He focuses on the warmth of the hearth before him, the smell of a stew bubbling away in a pot nearby. The safety this hall promises is something Vili hasn’t felt in a while, and he’s grateful for it. 

He’s not alone in this hall either - Vili can hear the hum of conversation drifting in from the vestibule that Randvi spends so much of her time in. He recognizes the other voice to be Sigurd, but no words have caught his attention yet, other than a few mentions of Eivor’s name. Discussing Norway, maybe. Vili still has no idea what had the brothers fleeing from a fight, other than fleeting mentions of a man named Basim and talk of the Life Tree, mentions of Valhalla, even the gods themselves they spoke of as though they walked alongside them. He recalls Eivor’s words on the terrace the night before they set sail - he spoke of men made into gods, of chasing glory that has grown too great for mortal hands. Vili knows the two must go together, they are pieces of a great chain that must be linked, but his mind simply won’t complete it. They live in a world of men, a brutal and bloody but undeniably human world - there are no gods among them, only warriors who have proven their worth and remain to tell the tale. It cannot be anything else, because if it was anything else, Vili has far too many questions to ask. Why did they take his mother from a child who sorely needed her? Why did they take his father from him before he was ready? Why has he seen so much loss, and never gained enough to make it worth it? And these questions are too heavy for his weary head, they make his thoughts spin into nonsense, and he has to shake it off all over again. 

Vili needs to speak to Eivor, soon. If not about what happened, then at least about where they go from here - he’s tired of ignoring the little moments, the stolen touches and stumbles along the line they’d drawn, the way they pretend they aren’t happening so that they can carry on in this safe in-between of ignorance. He knows they made an agreement in Hemthorpe, but things have changed. He’s made his choice, or at least, this choice was always woven into his life, and to fight it would be like fighting the sea itself: completely pointless. For Vili, there is no future he wants without Eivor, and he needs to know if Eivor feels the same. 

If he does, everything will be worth it.

If he doesn’t, it will hurt, but Vili knows it will heal too. Eivor would not sacrifice their friendship for this, and neither would he. 

Either way, Vili can’t lose more than what he’s already lost.

“Where is Eivor?” Randvi’s words find Vili, momentarily distracting him from the heel of bread he’s pulling apart in his hands. He pulls a face, looking up at where she’s standing at the head of the table. Sigurd joins her a moment later, leaning against the table as he listens in blatantly, biting down on an apple.

“You ask me as though I have him on a bridle.” Vili says drily, popping a small piece of bread into his mouth. 

Randvi just raises her eyebrows. “Well, you are  _ close… _ ”

“He went for a walk this morning, Randvi,” Sigurd interrupts, but there’s a quirk to his lip betraying his amusement, “He said he’d had enough of being clucked at.”

Vili snorts, laughing quietly. “He should get used to it, he’ll have no end of sour faced Saxon lords braying at him soon for a piece of trade.” And Vili can picture it so clearly, Eivor sitting there, the image of perfect neutrality until someone’s back is turned and his eyes are filled with the rage of Muspelheim itself. Beautiful. Vili hopes he gets to see it happen. 

A comfortable lull falls over the three of them as their muted laughter fades, taken over quickly by the crackling of the fire. A moment later, a breeze blows in through the open doors, dampening the fire down enough to fill the hall with silence instead, one that makes Vili look up from his plate. There’s a palpable worry in the air. Vili can feel it whispering at his ears in the unspoken words from Sigurd and Randvi. It quickly turns the silence awkward, the fire now spitting harshly as it spreads to a fresh log. A few more morsels of bread find their way to Vili’s mouth, but he feels like he’s eating straw for all the good it’s doing. He sees Sigurd stand out of the corner of his eye, turning towards him and Randvi with his arm held out, like he’s awaiting something.

“Both of you, listen,” Sigurd speaks quietly, an unusual melancholy in his words, “Do you agree with my decision? Of appointing Eivor as jarl of this clan, I mean. Speak plainly.”

Vili glances between Sigurd and Randvi. Sigurd seems sincere in his question, but surely this is something Randvi could give him far better counsel on than he could. Randvi looks unfazed, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear before she leans against the table where Sigurd had been, folding her arms as she shrugs. 

“I think you knew my thoughts on the matter long before I spoke them, Sigurd.” Randvi’s tone is firm, but there’s a kindness to her words. Sigurd nods, gaze softening as he glances her way for a moment, but then he’s back on Vili, and Vili has no idea what to say - or why he’s even being asked in the first place.

“Why do you need my opinion on this?” Vili manages to ask, hastily swallowing some bread. He coughs a little, a stray crumb clinging to the back of his mouth, and he reaches for a tankard he hopes is filled with mead, if this is where the conversation is going.

Sigurd fixes him with an unreadable look. “You know my brother well. Do you trust him to lead?”

“Without a doubt, yes. I would have let him take my father’s clan under his guidance if he so wished.” Vili speaks honestly, recalling his words to Eivor in that cave not so long ago. He’d meant it thoroughly then, if Eivor had stepped in and offered his wisdom he would have let him, without question. But that’s not Eivor’s way. He’s patient, and steadfast, and earnest in his belief of others. A trait Vili envies sometimes.

“Something tells me Hemming would not have minded that either.” Sigurd sighs, smiling sadly. But in the next moment, something in his expression turns to stone, resolute. “I want nobody to think I gave my duty up lightly - I know I can be bullheaded, but I am not a fool. I see how this clan looks at him.”

“Time is ruthless, Sigurd, it moves on regardless of our presence. That is all it is. They love you no less,” Randvi reaches out and pats Sigurd on the chest, and it is strange how much closer they seem in the wake of their separation, Vili thinks. Randvi drops her arm, returning to her stoic stance not a moment later. “It is just… they saw Eivor step in when you were gone.”

“I know, Randvi. I know.” Sigurd sighs, but he smiles briefly, nodding her way. “And I am proud of him for that, it is no easy task. I was fated to follow a different road for a time, that is all.”

The passing shadow over Sigurd leaves as quickly as it had arrived, and Vili takes a long sip of his mead, thinking he’s free of Sigurd’s questioning. But then Sigurd looks back at him, and his lips pull into a wicked smile. Oh, no.

“I’ve seen how  _ you  _ look at him.” Sigurd places a curled fist on the table, still holding onto his apple, leaning in as if he’s about to start conspiring with Vili. 

Vili finds he can’t quite look at Sigurd then; the man has delved too deeply into thoughts he felt were hidden, until now. He can feel his ears burning, and he’s utterly forgotten how to speak. It isn’t fear, or anxiety - it’s nothing like that. It’s softer and more gentle than that, a burning light that clutches tightly at his heart, and his only hesitation is in letting it spill from his lips before he’s ready, even as Sigurd seems intent on prying it out of him.

Suddenly, Sigurd pushes off the table and turns away.

“Look at you, a brazen-faced drengr, suddenly cowing away because I say things as I see them!” Sigurd crows, laughter spilling out as he gestures with his arm towards Vili, “Randvi, do you see this?”

“Oh, let him turn red in the sun and not because of your blunt words, Sigurd. Vili, ignore him.” Randvi sighs, but Vili does not miss the smile she fails to hide.

“We’re not…” Vili begins to argue, but he trails off as soon as he sees Sigurd looking at him, his hand on his hip, waiting for Vili to rise to the challenge. Of course. Vili huffs, remembering why he used to find the man so insufferable. Perhaps it’s a poor reflection of his own stubbornness that he doesn’t like seeing, but Vili won’t admit that in so many words. He fails to hide a smile of his own then, even as he stares down into his tankard.

“If either of you preening birds do see Eivor, let him know I’ve something for him. The brothers Ragnarsson will not stay long.” Randvi tells them both, taking the opportunity to quickly step out of the conversation. Smart woman. Vili hears her footsteps recede into the map room, and he’s left staring at Sigurd with ears burning. Sigurd only laughs again, waving Vili off as he rounds the table and sits on the opposing bench, facing Vili.

“Lighten your shoulders, Vili,” Sigurd says, “I speak mostly in jest.  _ Mostly.” _

Vili snorts, but there’s no ire in his pointed glare as he watches Sigurd finish his apple, tossing the core aside. Does he have nothing better to do? Vili supposes he might not, now that he’s relieved of his duties as jarl. He glances back down to his half-eaten food, and pokes a few pieces of cured meats around the wooden plate, appetite dwindling. If he’s honest, he is worried, as much as he is hopeful for Eivor. 

“Vili, listen,” Sigurd’s tone has dropped into something more serious, making Vili look up again, “I am worried for Eivor. I see that he cares for you, and that he trusts you.” 

Again with the pointed words. Vili pushes his plate away and sets his arms on the table, paying full attention. Sigurd’s eyes narrow for a second as he does that, like he’s wondering where to step next.

“I still share a fast loyalty with my brother, I always will, but I fear his trust in me has been torn,” Sigurd continues, “I have pulled taut the bowstring of his bond too many times, and I… I accept that. I will mend it.”

Vili raises his brow, a little surprised to be hearing such a candid admission from Sigurd of all people. This brawling bear of Fornburg had a reputation for being almost untouchable, revered by kings and jarls alike for the bloody trail of red he left through Norway, cutting it to the bone. It was all Vili knew of him when they first met all those years ago. To see it undone in a slip of honesty right before him, sat across from the man in the longhouse they now both called home? It is an odd feeling. One he might have to get used to.

“For now, I just want to know that Eivor can confide in you, if he won’t come to me.” Sigurd sighs, finally reaching his point. Vili can see the defeat in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump just a little. He bows under a heavy weight of his own making, Vili knows, but it doesn’t stop him feeling some kind of pity for Sigurd. 

But as for his request? That was never in question. Vili smiles faintly. At least Sigurd seems to be trying, in his own… self-important way. Strange man, but it’s not him that Vili wants to know about, so he doesn’t bother delving too deeply into this request. 

“He has me.” Vili shrugs, the statement delivered as nothing less than a fact. Eivor has him, in every way he wants or cares for. Vili would not even begin to deny that.

Sigurd looks at him for a long moment, that strange, silent assessment still ongoing. He seems to be satisfied with the answer though, giving Vili a pleased smile and a nod in return before rising from the bench. “Good.”   
  
Vili watches as Sigurd turns and makes to head out of the longhouse, but he stops and half-turns back to Vili just before his silhouette is swallowed up by the morning light drifting in through the doors. “I didn’t say it before, but welcome to Ravensthorpe, Vili Hemmingson.”   
  
Then he’s gone. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. i absolutely simp for ivarr and this fic might show it. but i promise to make it make sense okay ;^;

Watching Ivarr stalk around the map room has Eivor on edge before they’ve even begun. 

It might be that they called him Boneless for the way he moves like a reed in the wind, but Eivor made sure the man was made of more than myth when he took his boot to Ivarr’s fingers and heard the crunch of bone. Ivarr had howled and spat at him beneath the red sky of Sciropscire, both men bloodied and beaten, a violent desire for rage and reckoning brewing in both pairs of storm-clouded eyes. Ivarr wanted a glorious finish to his saga, and Eivor had months of turmoil to unleash on the sorry bastard - which he did, willingly - but he refused to see him to Valhalla, not like that. He stayed his blade for Ubba, and for the Ivarr who had sat across from him in Tamworth and called him a friend. It was a bitter ending to a fight, but at least it did not end in death. He’d gathered up the mess he’d made of Ivarr, shoved him on a horse, and dragged the both of them back to Caustow Castle before sending for Ubba. Then he sailed back to Ravensthorpe and shut himself away for a week, before anything else could go wrong. 

So, it’s no surprise that the sight of Ivarr does nothing to ease Eivor’s growing concerns about their conquest of Wessex. 

“Hamtunscire is the last Saxon stronghold,” Randvi points out the shire on the map, pulling Eivor’s gaze to the table, “It is heavily guarded, King Aelfred prepares for war as we speak. You will meet tremendous resistance from all sides.”

“We will have the steel to answer it.” Ubba says firmly, standing at Randvi’s side where he looms over the table. Eivor admires the confidence, but he can’t help but think they must be overlooking something. There is a reason Wessex hasn’t yet fallen to pressure on all sides - it is a strong kingdom, full of loyal thegns and organized fyrds behind the mass of Saxon swords that will be waiting. They will need to strike precisely, and with patience. Yet, as Eivor stares at the blank space of Hamtunscire lined on the map before him, he sees nothing. No opportunity. No break in the wall. He misses the simplicity of raiding the fortresses of Norway. No leader would resist a holmgang, and once it was done, the floodgates were open. That had been the case at Kjotve’s fortress. 

How strange. It seems insignificant now. A fleeting memory, carried on a breeze with the chill of Niflheim itself, here and gone in a moment. 

“Guthrum marches on Wessex as we speak, does he not?” Eivor asks, eyes darting to find Ubba. The taller man nods, arms folding across a broad chest.

“He will want to press his attack soon.” Ubba adds, and Eivor doesn’t miss the pointed edge to his words. They do not have time to waste. 

Ivarr whistles sharply, an irritating sound that rises from somewhere behind Eivor. He doesn’t turn to look, even as he hears Ivarr speak. “Careful, Eivor Jarl, you might have little piggies in your fields with ears flapping on the wind. Need I remind you how you found me in Repton?” 

“Painting the floor, yes, I remember.” Eivor rolls his eyes. He pushes up from the table, finally gracing Ivarr with a piercing glare. “You’ll find Ravensthorpe isn’t in need of any paint. Keep your axes where they are.”   
  
A flicker of respect crosses Ivarr’s intense gaze, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender, stepping back and continuing on his walk around the room.

“We will send word to our allies,” Eivor turns back to the table and sets his gaze on Randvi with an order for her, “Bring them to us on the River Thames, just outside of the shire. We will regroup there, and I will find Guthrum.”

“And then what? More talking?” Ivarr leers past Eivor’s shoulder, murmuring in his ear. “If only there was a place on Midgard that bent the knee so easily to pretty words, you’d have them on a leash, Wolf-Kissed.” 

“You’ve shown me what reckless steel can do, Ivarr,” Eivor rumbles in reply, the scar from Ivarr’s axe plenty visible from where it’s carved into the left side of Eivor’s head, “And I have no need for it here.”

“Ah, you would be so lucky to feel my axe on your skull again.” Ivarr’s reedy chuckle fades as the man steps away. “But… no, no, I think I am bound for different shores. All this talking has finished my patience. My axe is thirsty, and I quite fancy a throne for my own arse. Ireland awaits me, far from this festering shithole of Saxon kings.”

“What are you on about, Ivarr?” Ubba sighs heavily, arms unfolding to plant his hands flat on the table as he fixes Ivarr with a stony glare. There’s something in the resigned expression that tells Eivor this isn’t the first time Ubba’s heard such a thing from his brother’s mouth.

Ivarr shrugs, wheeling around on his heel to begin heading out of the room, throwing a half-arsed wave over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you talkers to it.”

“Where are you going?” Ubba growls after him.

“To appreciate the scenery, dear brother, maybe make a friend or two!” Ivarr throws behind him, and then he’s gone, leaving the map room in silence. Eivor’s hardly surprised, but Ireland? Those shores are far beyond his mind right now. He lets out a sharp exhale, hands resting on his hips as he returns his attention to the table and the people gathered around it.

“I see he’s not lost his charm.” Sigurd breaks the silence from where he’s been leaning against the doorway to the vestibule, and Ubba lets out a laugh, clearly frustrated. He waves it off, dismissing Ivarr like a bad thought.

“He will run where he likes, I grow tired of trying to repair the few things he leaves standing in his wake.” Ubba turns back to the table and sinks into silence, heavy with contemplation. Eivor recognises the weight that sits on his shoulders with Ivarr gone, and he can only shoot him a knowing look across the table before he has to turn his mind back to their purpose here. 

“Another day, Ireland might sing of greener shores. For now, we have all we want here.” Eivor murmurs, deep in thought as he continues to look over the map. It remains blank and unyielding, but the longer they wait, the harder it will be to punch through this last bastion that stands before them and the four kingdoms. And Ubba’s right in what he isn’t saying - they must move. “Give me two days, Ubba. Time enough to raise our allies, and for us to ride south to Guthrum.”

A flicker of something alights in Ubba’s tired eyes, and he almost smiles. “Two days, and England will be ours.” He reaches out an arm for Eivor to clasp across the table, and Eivor does so, setting their agreement in an ironclad bond.

“If England does not fall, it will at least run red with Saxon blood enough to stain the fields for a lifetime after, so that they don’t forget.” Eivor assures him, and their clasped arms fall back to their sides, a wordless agreement strung in the air between them - there is no guaranteed victory here, and Ubba is wise enough to keep his mouth shut on that. Eivor can see the doubt being stoked behind his heavy eyes, and he wonders how much of that is being swallowed up by the fractures that Ivarr leaves in his wake. Ubba had wanted a home here, a future. It must feel like it’s slipping out of reach with every passing day. Eivor thinks of Ivarr’s maddened request, beaten and broken on the ground and spitting out a demand for death so he might finally sit at Odin’s side in Valhalla. He thinks of Halfdan, sitting alone and desolate on his snowy throne, betrayed by his oldest friend and with naught but a dog left to confide in. 

The Ragnarssons have shouldered the heavy weight of conquest between them with howls and gnashing teeth, relentless in their onslaught as they devoured England piece by bloody piece, but Eivor feels they are slowing. Stumbling with hands outstretched, like men racing towards a desperate end. 

Eivor tries not to dwell on the way fate tugs at his heartstrings, playing a tune that sounds like a funeral dirge. 

“I will bring my best warriors to make sure of it.” Eivor forces a smile on his face, and his gaze slides to Sigurd, who gives him a curt nod in agreement. Ubba makes a noise of thinly-veiled surprise, turning to Sigurd with a curious glance.

“You’re to fight with us?” Ubba asks with blunted words. Sigurd gives him a wry smile.

“Have no fear, Ubba, I was given the means to thrive in spite of my loss.” He tells the Ragnarsson, casually plucking a loose thread from his tunic. Eivor resists the urge to laugh. He’s been lighter ever since they returned, quicker to smile, and even quicker still to challenge like he used to, always armed with needling jabs. Every day brings Sigurd closer to the one who left Norway, and Eivor’s heart is made a little lighter to see it. It will never be the same, Eivor understands that - both have tried to hold tight the bonds of fate in their mortal hands, and it has burned them. Now, they can’t quite hold on anymore. But they still have something of themselves left, and Eivor thinks that’s good enough for now. 

“Then it is agreed,” Ubba lets out a hefty sigh, and his shoulders seem no lighter for it, “We ride out in two days. If my brother hasn’t already set half of Ireland ablaze...” He reaches up and runs a knuckle along his brow, shaking his head.

“Let me speak with him.” Eivor suggests, and he isn’t sure why he’s offering. Ivarr twists his guts something terrible, anger always roiling with bitter understanding as though the two fight to overpower Eivor’s decisions. In the end, it’s nearly always easier to walk away from Ivarr. Ubba holds his arms out to his sides, “It’s your head, Wolf-Kissed, not mine. Though, he tends to bite less ever since you rendered him a sack of crushed bone in Sciropscire.”

“That, I do not regret.” Eivor points out with an unkind smile, and Ubba waves him off.

“I do not begrudge you for it. I was only surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.” 

Uneasy laughter ripples between them, spanning a generation of drengr who know too well the cost of conquest. 

“Well, you and your brother are welcome in Ravensthorpe,” Randvi concludes the talks with ease and a well-practiced smile delivered to Ubba, “If you wish to pass the days here, that is.”

“Of course,” Eivor echoes the sentiment, “Or ride ahead and we will meet you on the road.” 

“I think we might linger, if only to enjoy the comforts of a town before we press on into blood-drenched ditches. Better company to be found here than in corpses.” Ubba glances about the place before settling his gaze on Randvi with a nod of appreciation. Eivor wonders if he’s imagining the way Randvi suddenly seems beet-red. Ubba continues, “So _I_ will stay, at least.”

“And I’ll find Ivarr.” Eivor promises Ubba. The taller man’s smile is weary, but that glimmer of hope returns to his gaze at last before he takes his leave.

* * *

Spring blooms in Ravensthorpe, the sweet scent of bluebells heralding the oncoming days sure to bring a lightness that Eivor has learned to be grateful for. The heights of spring and summer in England are far kinder than anything Norway had to offer. It inspires a certain kind of peace, knowing that the seasons will change and run into each other like the bleed of ink, but it will still be beautiful to look upon even when he begins to miss the morning dew or the song of larks on the river. They will always come around again. It’s a more comfortable existence than the endless round of frost and snow, with only mud to draw the line between winter and summer in the northern lands. 

He trudges further uphill, along the hunter’s path that Petra and Wallace have worn into the woods. Eivor goes quietly, hearing the sounds of life all around him and above him in the canopy, and the smile on his face is genuine. His injury still aches from time to time - more so when he’s unarmed, when Gungnir sits abandoned in his room - but he’s healing, and soon he’ll be ready to march again. 

In two days.

The thought sours his peace with uncertainty. Two days, and they ride to assail Wessex - or at least goad King Aelfred into surrender. Eivor cannot shake the feeling that neither outcome will find them on the field, despite their numbers, and despite the company of legends that they now keep.

_Thunk._

Eivor stops mid-walk, feet planted into a ready stance as his hand flies to the axe he carries at his side. His eyes spot an echo on the air, the settling vibrations of an arrow freshly embedded into a nearby tree trunk - not too close, but certainly close enough to leave Eivor a little on edge. He grumbles. “Who’s there? If you were aiming for me, you’re a piss-poor shot.” 

He doesn’t hear anything for a moment, and huffs to himself as he goes to retrieve the arrow. As soon as he closes his fist about it and yanks it from the tree, he feels footsteps approaching - running towards him.

“Shit!” Vili pants, slowing to a walk when he sees Eivor has the arrow in his hand. “I had a perfect shot! You scared my deer away!” 

Eivor’s irritation is swept away immediately as he turns and finds Vili standing there, hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed with the sudden effort of sprinting downhill. And through half of England’s countryside, Eivor thinks as he notices the bits of leaves and twigs now nestling in Vili’s pelt. He smiles, chuckling quietly as he walks over and plucks a leaf free.

“I am quiet as a mouse, Vili, you’re the lumbering brute who scares his meal away if he gets within fifty paces of it.” Eivor says, and Vili almost looks offended. He plucks the arrow from Eivor’s grip with a huff. Eivor’s grin turns wolfish as he looks up the taller man. “Careful _that_ stick doesn’t end up in your arse too.” 

Vili’s eyes narrow, and Eivor can see the first sign of a scathing remark taking shape - the way his eyes grow intense with defiance, he loves it. But no words follow. Vili only smiles, and shoves Eivor squarely in the chest. Gentler than usual, Eivor notices. He pretends to stumble back, laughing as Vili almost immediately goes to reach for him with sudden regret.

“I’m not that fragile yet.” Eivor tells him, but he accepts the outstretched hand without thinking. It feels right. Vili pulls him back, even though he doesn’t have to. It’s a strange meeting of non-intentions, a habitual desire to close the distance despite there being none in the first place. Both are left feeling it, thinking it, but doing everything not to say it.

“What are you--”

“Why are you ou--”

They stop just as quickly as they start speaking, both of their words colliding into a senseless jumble of sound as they speak over each other. Vili rolls his eyes, and Eivor swears his cheeks get even pinker. Grinning, Eivor gives Vili’s shoulder a gentle nudge with a fist.

“Go on. I’ve hardly let you speak.” 

“I was going to ask what you’re doing out here.” Vili says, and the simple question has Eivor stumped. A mirror of the one he was planning to ask, but he has no answer - his feet brought him here unbidden. Perhaps the idea of finding Ivarr was in the back of his mind, but he knows that finding Vili first is no mistake. Eivor doesn’t do things for no reason, even when his mind is elsewhere, dreaming of far-off things. So he shrugs, forearm still clasped against Vili’s. “Making sure our newest drengr hasn’t been bested by the local fauna?”

Vili’s smile brightens, the intense challenge in his eyes fading to something softer. Eivor doesn’t dare hope it might be something meant for him. Then Eivor feels Vili’s hand squeeze around his forearm, and Vili steps away, tugging his arm as if he wants Eivor to follow. “Walk with me.”

Eivor follows, immediately missing the warmth as Vili lets go of his arm and turns to begin walking down the hunter’s trail. 

It’s familiar, walking with Vili like this. He can almost hear the gulls cawing over the fjord, or the distant baying of wolves through the icy winds as they patrol the road from Fornburg, poking and prodding each other with jibes and insults meant to get under their skin, leaving them laughing and ignoring their responsibilities. It’s almost the same here, except now there’s a sun-dappled forest floor beneath their feet, and not the crunch of snow or squelching spring-time mud from the thaw. And instead of poking and jeering at each other like teenage boys trying to prove themselves in scrappy tests of skill, it’s a strange, comfortable silence that envelops them, one tempered by time and experience. 

For everything Eivor hopes Vili might say, the silence twists each hope into an anxious fear - what if he’s changed his mind about Ravensthorpe? Maybe he wants to be a jarl after all, after seeing Eivor step up. Or maybe he just wants to move on again, like his wandering heart always does. Each thought makes Eivor’s footsteps grow heavy with reluctance, and he feels as though he might be walking towards a cliff edge he didn’t see coming until now.

It’s all he can think about until he feels Vili’s hands on his face all of a sudden, warm and strong, fingertips made rough by years of toil, but Eivor’s watched him cradle gentler things with a reverence suited to Freyja, not the clanging hammers of Thor. His smile is half-formed in a daze as he looks at Vili, blinking away his surprise. 

“Are you listening?” Vili asks, and Eivor’s mouth opens and closes without a word. Had he been talking this entire time and Eivor had just… missed everything? Oh, by the gods. He feels his ears burning. He’s saved only by Vili’s tremulous laugh, both disbelieving and adoring all at once, somehow. “I wanted to tell you something, Eivor. Do you intend on digging the dirt out of your ears to pay attention?” 

Eivor’s own laugh is as shaky as Vili’s own. “Tell me. I’ll pay attention this time.” 

“You’d better.” Vili sighs, and his hands slip down to Eivor’s shoulders and hold him there. Eivor studies his face for a moment. Ocean-dark eyes dart everywhere but Eivor’s face, or if they do, it’s for a fleeting second. His brow isn’t furrowed, but his mouth is pulled taught by words that fall silent before they slip out, his thoughts clearly caught somewhere between his head and his heart. Eivor lets the silence hang for a little longer, until he places his hand over Vili’s heart, like he might feel them there instead.

“Speak your mind, Vili. You’re with me.” He says softly, and Vili almost seems to sink under those words. His hands tighten at Eivor’s shoulders, as though Eivor is the sole thing keeping him from whatever depths are lurking, unseen. 

And just as Vili opens his mouth again, Eivor hears a hooting laugh, made intentionally shrill and grating - it pulls his attention away from Vili, brow furrowing with annoyance as he tries to find the source of the noise. Ivarr stands on a ledge above them, smiling sharply, crouched with his head tilted like a curious raven eyeing its carrion-feast. Eivor’s teeth grind audibly, a growl slipping from between them as his hand curls into a fist on Vili’s chest. 

“Am I interrupting, boys?” Ivarr coos, resting his chin on a fist. Yes, Eivor wants to say, of fucking course he is. But he did say he’d find Ivarr. There’s a strange storm brewing within him, one that Eivor recognises in his own way, and Ubba can’t break the rolling fog that divides him and Ivarr anymore. If he doesn’t try now, Ivarr would likely be gone by morning, and Ubba would lose a brother that might have been saved. Eivor at least owes it to him to try.

He turns his gaze on Vili, an apology ready, but Vili just shakes his head. “I will save my words.”

“Vili, no--” Eivor almost whines, a little pathetically. Vili’s smile shuts him up.

“Later.” Vili says to him, and Eivor’s heart stutters through a beat when he watches Vili’s eyes drift inexplicably to his lips and then quickly back up. 

“...later.” Eivor promises, and means it. Vili’s hands fall from his shoulders, he turns away and heads down the path, stopping only to pick up the arrow he’d dropped on the way up, and then he’s out of sight - far sooner that Eivor would like. 

“You _reek_ of love-sickness.” Ivarr comments from above, and Eivor’s gaze snaps back on him, raging. 

“And you’ll be reeking of your own blood if you keep poking, Ivarr.” Eivor warns. Ivarr lets out another laugh, less shrill and more genuine this time, and waves Eivor up.

“Come on up, Wolf-Kissed. I want you all to myself, now that my brother’s tongue has stopped wagging long enough to let you go.” Ivarr stands, and disappears over the crest of the ledge. Eivor’s ire quietens. Forcing out a sigh, he shoots one last look in the direction Vili had left in, and then picks his way up the ledge, not bothering to waste time on the path. Once he’s up top, he looks around for Ivarr, finding the Ragnarsson perched on a rock that overlooks Ravensthorpe, now lit by a bright, midday sun. 

“You found quite the view.” Eivor says as he approaches, stopping by Ivarr to take in the sight himself, just for a moment. 

“Trees, trees,” Ivarr gestures to the rolling expanse, “And _more fucking trees._ At least I have the choice of plenty to string our Saxon friends upon, though, it doesn’t quite have the same appeal without a cold stone floor waiting for them.”

“Better for the neck, I hear.” Eivor responds drily, but he turns and walks to the log set adjacent to the stone, the ashy remains of a fire encircled in small stones clearly visible. It’s a peaceful spot, popular with those in Ravensthorpe trying to get away - usually for meetings that end in stolen kisses where nobody can see. Perhaps he might be bold enough to bring Vili here sometime. Eivor sits heavily, digging his heels into the dirt as he reaches for a broken stick, mulling over suitable words for the man sat across from him. 

“Did you come to Ravensthorpe just to antagonise everyone, Ivarr?” Eivor asks after a moment or two of silence, rolling the stick between his hands. He watches as Ivarr seems to tense, facing away from him but... almost turning. Something stops him halfway. Reluctance or resistance? It’s hard to tell with Ivarr.

“I’m here for Ubba.” Ivarr says. The man looks down at his fingers, now forever made crooked by Eivor’s brutal rage in Sciropscire. “Even if my brother still grows softer by the second with his nose up the arse of another Saxon lord. He’d feast on their shit if it meant peace, that fucking pisstake.”

Eivor listens, drawing absent lines in the mud with his stick. Ivarr’s never hidden his feelings on the idea of peace - a waste of time, an illusion for people to hide behind in-between the axe swings that sing a brutal prelude to war. This is all Ivarr knows, and Eivor suspects it’s all Ivarr _wants_ to know. Why change something when it’s always worked in your favour? 

“You don’t agree with me, do you?” Ivarr asks, words shifting into a question with an edge sharper than the axe at Eivor’s side. Eivor looks at him from under a furrowed brow, attention momentarily pulled from his useless mud drawings. 

“No, I don’t.” Eivor can’t lie, and has no reason to. Ivarr might be a brutal man, better versed in removing tongues than speaking with skaldic precision, but he at least respects honesty. 

“I know you don’t.” Ivarr’s mouth twitches into a lopsided smile. 

“But…” Eivor sighs, driving the stick into the mud with a little too much force, “I understand why you came. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Sigurd, and I almost died to prove it.”

Ivarr watches him over his shoulder, saying nothing. Eivor doesn’t miss how Ivarr turns just slightly more towards him, however. So he continues, snapping off a piece of the embedded stick. “You want to see Ubba at your side in Valhalla, with you and Halfdan. It’s a fine dream.”

“I don’t _dream,_ Wolf-Kissed,” Ivarr snorts, throwing something to the ground. It’s a ring, the sun glinting off the worn silver band just before it lands in the mud. “I await Valhalla, my birthright. Halfdan will join me there, of that, I have no fucking doubt. I thought I could drag Ubba with me, but I… I don’t think I can.”

Eivor’s movements slow, coming to a stop entirely as Ivarr’s admission sinks in. 

“I’ve chased him all across this shithole, playing the rusty blade to his polished words, there to remind everyone not to fucking cross the Sons of Ragnar unless they want to see themselves strung up by their own entrails before the day is done.” Ivarr growls, “Sometimes I think I see him, my brother, when we pillage and plunder and fill our coffers with the spoils we deserve. Then he goes and bargains it all away to some tongue-tied sapling who can barely hold his own cock, let alone go axe to axe with our horde. He says it will _bring us peace, Ivarr--_ ” He spits on the ground. “Where is this fucking peace? It’s not up here, it’s not in here,” Ivarr jams his fingers to his temple, then thumps a fist over his chest, before looking at Eivor, eyes wild and angry. “And it’s not fucking here either, is it? Not if you’re sat there planning to kick Wessex in the balls before you cut them off with whatever piss-poor rabble you have left.” 

Ivarr’s words feel like nails dragging upon a rock. Eivor has to force his jaw to relax and stop clenching, forcing out a steady exhale. Nothing in what he says is wrong, it’s a bare-faced truth. Pacifying England hasn’t been easy, and this last bastion in their way promises to be the hardest obstacle to overcome yet. One that reeks of death, somehow, before they’ve even begun. 

Looking at Ivarr, Eivor’s gaze turns to scrutiny. Does he fear losing Ubba to an empty conquest? Eivor thinks so. Ivarr’s always been restless, but where before he might have swayed in the wind or paced an easy circle like a wolf after its prey, Ivarr’s movements are sharp and jerky now, fingers twitching and teeth snapping on almost every word. There’s a tension to him that could cut through ice and bone. It’s fear, in the only way Ivarr can feel it - entwined in rage to disguise it. And that’s an odd thing to consider, no matter how Eivor tries to piece it together in his own mind. Before he came to these shores, the Ragnarssons were men made into legends, the subject of stories told amongst young hopefuls waiting to wet their axes with first blood, dreaming of a glory that would lift them up to the same great heights. Eivor was no exception, nor was Sigurd. To find their way to their sides in Repton was a strange honour, but now everything has lost its luster - what was gold upon the sun-soaked fields is now just red, and it is on their hands, on their armour, on their axes; everywhere they go, they leave a trail.

“So, Ireland? That’s your solution?” Eivor asks. Ivarr just shrugs, holding his arms out to his sides like he has no other answer. He looks skywards, the sun shining down upon him, and laughs for a long moment until the sound chokes itself out, and he’s left staring breathlessly into the open sky. 

“The gods have blessed me with a body that can be broken, skin that can be carved, and a will of fucking iron,” Ivarr declares, “I will take what remains of Ireland, claim myself a pretty little throne, and then I’ll fucking die upon it. Valhalla will have me.” 

Eivor sighs, throwing the broken piece of stick to the ground. “And you will leave Ubba when he needs you most?” 

Ivarr falters, his hands falling limply to his sides. Then, he bows his head, and Eivor sees for the first time just how heavy this fear lies upon Ivarr’s bony shoulders. It seems to bend him entirely, leaving him no room to stand. Still, his hands clench into fists and his eyes flash with a warning, a dark light that Eivor has only ever seen in Ivarr. 

“Leaving to Ireland will be another scar for me to flaunt,” Ivarr murmurs, “But losing Ubba to the depths of Hel would drag me there with him.”

In some way, that’s a relief to hear - that Ivarr still has a heart, however twisted. Eivor chews at his lip, the silence heavy in the air now. Where can he go with this that Ivarr has not already? Nowhere, Eivor suspects, but perhaps he can revisit something from a different perspective. A forced one. 

“I didn’t drag you back to Ubba to watch you run off again.” Eivor mutters, fingers raking through his beard. He hears Ivarr snort. Feels eyes on him a moment later.

“Yes, hold on, let me pucker up and kiss your arse, Eivor, for dragging me back into the muck.” Ivarr hisses, unimpressed. Eivor can’t hide the odd satisfaction he gets from Ivarr’s anger in that moment, mouth pulled into a half-smile. 

“I know you think I’m full of empty words, Ivarr.” Eivor tries a different route, gaze dropping back to the crude lines he’s drawn in the mud. Senseless. Without consequence. Sometimes he wishes he could speak like that too, just so there would be fewer lives dragging on the tail of his cloak, choking him slowly with every decision he makes. 

“I don’t.” Ivarr snaps, but his words aren’t sharp anymore. Eivor looks up, surprised. Ivarr’s turned away again, facing Ravensthorpe. “You’re a fucking good jarl, Eivor. Fearless. A bloody poet. Everything a lot of fathers would want in a son, as much as it tastes like shit to say it.” 

“Even mine.” Ivarr adds a moment later, turning his head to shoot Eivor a side-long glance. 

Eivor doesn’t dwell on that too long. “I don’t have a great record with fathers, Ivarr.” 

That makes him laugh. Not a brittle, horrible sound, but a deep, rolling laugh. “You are just as twisted as I am, Wolf-Kissed.”

“Not quite, but I’ve sunk low enough to meet you halfway.” Eivor points out. With a sigh, he stands, getting ready to turn away and find Vili again. Before he leaves, Eivor goes to where he saw the glint of Ivarr’s ring in the mud, and digs it out, cleaning it off with his thumb. It’s a pretty thing, simple - much like the one Ubba had given him. A bond of loyalty made tangible. A reminder. Frowning, Eivor steps in front of Ivarr, finally facing the man. It’s hard to tell beneath the scars and the heavy ink of the dragon tattoo that spans the side of his head, but there’s a sense of… gauntness to him. An emptiness, starved of something that isn’t hunger. 

“Nobody can stop you from leaving, Ivarr. But hold on long enough for one more fight, just to see your brother safely to whatever hall he wishes to find. Then you find your own.” 

Eivor holds the ring out. Ivarr stares at him flatly for a long moment - long enough to make Eivor think twice and turn away. 

“Hey!” Ivarr growls. Eivor stops. “That’s mine.”

“So it is.” Eivor holds the ring out again, and Ivarr snatches it away. Eivor smiles smugly and turns back to the path, leaving Ivarr to his musings. 

“You’re a fucking piece of work, Wolf-Kissed.” Is the last thing he hears before Ivarr’s out of sight, out of earshot, and out of mind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, i love the ragnarssons and it shows. also, ubi will have to pry sigurd + eivor's sibling banter from my cold dead hands, that's all.

Kicking aside a loose stone, Vili sets down the hefty pile of canvas and poles he’s lugged from the ship. They’re beached after a full day of sailing the rivers, tomorrow they will find their allies on the Thames, and beyond that, Vili cannot say. He is only following Eivor, and while the call of battle-song and glory glitters beyond the fog from time to time, they have lost their luster. Being in Ravensthorpe has shown Vili a new way of living, a comfortable existence where he can begin to picture something beyond the next week - an existence where he’s still living in Ravensthorpe beyond the days his wandering heart has accounted for. Perhaps it is because his heart has found a home. Vili had tried to say as much to Eivor, but that damned Ragnarsson had squawked his way into their conversation and ruined the moment. Vili scowls as he untangles a knot a little too roughly, sending stones scattering when the heavy canvas falls from his grip. 

It’s raining heavily. Thunder rumbles on the air, Thor singing his praises from far away. For now, Njord has not unleashed his anger and the winds are still, but Vili doesn’t think that will last long. The rivers had been rough, everyone working twice as hard to row or haul the sail against the rain, and passing through Saxon territory had garnered some poorly-aimed arrows to the ship’s hull. He glances over to where Sigurd and Ubba are poking around, assessing the damage while a Norse soldier Vili doesn’t recognize seems to be relaying something to them. A few fat drops of rain hitting his head quickly turns Vili back to his task, and he stacks up a frame to hold the canvas, assembling a sturdy shelter for the night before he sits down and wipes the rain from his face. The hard rocky shore underfoot is just another miserable experience to add to their thoroughly miserable day.

“Slacking off, are we?” Ivarr’s reedy voice swims up from somewhere behind Vili, making him turn his head. Ivarr stalks towards him, rolling up a rope that had been used to hold another canvas roll together. Vili immediately feels his skin crawl with an unique blend of anxiety and irritation - it’s a humbling experience to be sat in the same boat as the legendary sons of Ragnar, but by the gods, he’d quickly learned why Eivor seems to bite much harder when Ivarr’s around. The man has a gift for getting under your skin, poking and prying until you give in to his inane questioning - that, or you get an axe holding up your chin and a warning not to cross him again. Thankfully, Vili’s only come up against the former tactic so far. And those questions had been… odd, to say the least. Some about Eivor, some about him. Ivarr asked each one with the demeanour of a man who had no intention of listening to the answers, and yet, Vili felt that wasn’t quite the case.

“No, no,” Vili sighs, making to get to his feet again, “I’ll get a fire going.”

“That’d be smart.” Ivarr quips, giving a mocking clap. Vili resists the urge to roll his eyes and incite more pointless digs, and begins his search for some stones to build a base. He hears the crunch of footsteps echoing his own, moments later. 

“You settled north, didn’t you?” Ivarr asks. Vili stands up, a few flat stones in his hands, and turns to Ivarr with a nod. Ivarr hums, a grating sound. “So… you’re too much of a sapling for Halfdan’s time, but you must have settled a shithole up there under someone else, eh?”

Vili exhales sharply through his nose, scattering some of the rain collecting in his beard as his breath turns to fog. He fixes Ivarr with a dead stare, not sure where he’s intending on taking this. “My father followed Halfdan to England, and brought me with him. He ruled as jarl in Hellirborg for some time.” Vili explains as simply as he can, unwilling to delve too deeply into his grief. It’s still there, an omnipresent shadow made ever darker by the brightness of his new life.

“Ah…” Ivarr points out a flat space in the shore that he’s cleared. Vili eyes him warily, but begins setting down the stones as Ivarr looms over him. “Boots too big to fill? Is that why you’re scrambling down here in the muck of Mercia?” 

Vili tenses, slamming down the last down. Ivarr’s raspy chuckle fades into the tide crashing onto the shore, and Vili takes a moment to breathe. 

“Stop winding up our friend and make yourself useful, Ivarr.” Ubba’s hulking frame comes into view, a broad hand going to shove Ivarr’s bony shoulder. Ivarr darts away and out of reach.

“I’m talking, Ubba,” Ivarr says, rolling the sound, “Like you. All talk, talk, fucking talk. Does that displease you?”

“Funny.” Ubba scowls, but Vili can see the anger is barely there. It’s more defeat that seems to be talking. Still, Ivarr stalks off and leaves them in peace, and Vili feels his shoulders immediately lifting now that those dark eyes aren’t on him. 

“Pay my brother no mind, Vili.” Ubba’s words are considerably less grating. Vili chuckles thinly, rising to his full height again now the stones are in place.

“If I paid him no mind, I fear I might find an axe in my back the moment it’s turned.” Vili points out, “It’s fine.”

Ubba’s mouth twitches, almost smiling. His eyes are far kinder than his brother’s, Vili notices. They work together in silence for a short while, building up a fire until it roars, the heat beginning to wick away the damp in the air. 

They step away, and Ubba turns to Vili again. “I think he’s asking after Halfdan, in his own way.” 

Vili brushes the grit from his hands, standing in the shadow of a giant with nothing useful to say. Not a place he ever thought he’d find himself in, and once again, he’s grateful that he isn’t sat in Hemthorpe’s seat where the shadows cast would be far too easy to get lost in. 

Ubba’s words are a surprise. Halfdan had passed through Hemthorpe a number of times, but Vili was rarely present - both on account of his restless nature, and because he simply felt desperately awkward stumbling around the longhouse under the eyes of better men than him. He’d known him from a distance, and little more, but the man had always seemed… lonely. A withered old tree with stubborn roots, left untouched by every frost and thaw. Is that what Ivarr and Ubba want to hear? Vili doubts it.

“I saw him last a few weeks ago.” Vili says quietly, and he keeps his eyes on his hands, picking out grit where there is none. “When we sent my father to Odin’s hall. He came to say his parting words, and that was all.” 

He sees Ubba shift out of the corner of his eye, his stance going immediately from something proud and closed off to settling a heavy hand on Vili’s shoulder. It’s strange, but… welcome. Reassuring, perhaps, that a son of Ragnar doesn’t look upon him with pity or scorn. 

“You fight on,  _ drengr, _ that’s nothing to find shame in.” Ubba tells him, seeing right through that flimsy pretense Vili’s holding up, trying to hide his grief from the world. Vili nods, an empty laugh falling from his lips - it’s relief, as much as it is a quiet plea to turn to better tales. Ubba seems to understand, removing his hand from Vili’s shoulder, and he goes to take a seat by the fire. 

“How was he?” Ubba asks a moment later. Vili rubs the back of his neck, unable to shake the feeling that he’s being watched. His suspicions are confirmed when he hears the crunch of stone under boots, the gait too odd to be Eivor or Sigurd. Ivarr, then. He tries not to look at the man as he slinks back up to the fire, and instead focuses back on Ubba.

“He was tired.” Vili shrugs, “But whole and hale, as far as I saw.”

“Good,” Ubba nods, gaze lost in the fire, “Good.” 

Surprisingly, Ivarr keeps his mouth shut even as he takes a seat beside Ubba, stretching his legs out towards the fire until the flames almost lick at his boots. Vili’s about to do the same, until he feels a hand clapping his back.

“Vili, would you fetch Eivor?” Sigurd asks of him, tone entirely nonchalant, but Vili knows better. He’s been relentless in his poking and prodding today, asking for tales of Stavanger and Fornburg, reminding Vili of things that Eivor’s done, crowing for details on stories that have been told with varying degrees of accuracy over the years. It’s pointed, but not exactly malicious. Just… Vili really needs to talk to Eivor. Maybe now would be his chance? It would get him away from the camp, out of Ivarr’s line of sight. And he’d be alone with Eivor.

Hm. Not a terrible thought.

“He went to get the lay of the land with his raven, a little ways east.” Sigurd continues unprompted, as though he’s already decided what Vili’s answer would be. 

“...just this once.” Vili sighs, and Sigurd’s smile is annoyingly smug. He turns away from the warmth of the fire, and trudges along the shore where he last saw Eivor head off. 

* * *

The wind is beginning to pick up as Vili crests the ridge between stony shore and grassy field, marking the beginning of the last shire awaiting the clang of hammers and roar of steel. It’s eerily quiet, the momentary rumbles of thunder fading far into the distance. The air seems heavier still, like a shroud of chains, making Vili hunch his shoulders and pull his cloak tighter against the chill. He looks out into the gloaming, fields beginning to fall into the cold hues of dusklight. A lone silhouette cuts through the gloom, hand outstretched as a raven swoops from above to land, but it changes its mind at the last minute, beady eyes landing on Vili’s approaching figure, and darting towards him instead. 

“Hello, Synin.” Vili greets the raven as she nears, her cawing now entwined with the strange rattle of her own greeting. She swoops over his shoulder, close enough that he feels the rush of feathers across his ear, tickling him. Vili chuckles and watches as she circles above him, and then begins her descent back towards the silhouette, who steps close enough for dusklight to paint the details onto him again. Eivor greets Vili with a smile, but Vili notices it doesn’t light his eyes like it usually does. 

“Have they talked you in circles yet?” Eivor asks, holding his hand out for Synin again. She lands this time, immediately going to peck at Eivor’s curled fist, like he might be hiding food from her. The minute he opens his empty palm, Synin caws and flies off.

“Almost,” Vili slows as he nears, now only an arm’s reach away from Eivor, “Ivarr, more than anyone.”

Eivor’s eyes darken slightly, but he nods, smile still frozen in place. It’s as though he’s holding it there for Vili’s sake, and the thought makes Vili uneasy. 

“It is hard to know where you stand with Ivarr, but it’s not worth dwelling on.” Eivor sighs, glancing up to see where Synin is heading. She circles above them, then darts back west, towards the camp Vili has not long left. Vili says nothing else, looking back at Eivor. He’s tense, jaw clenched, brow laden with some unspoken concern that sings in his eyes instead. Vili wants to reach out, but he’s afraid he’ll stumble straight into all the things he wants to say instead of listening to Eivor. So Vili keeps his hands to himself, folding his arms across his chest as he tilts his head, fixing Eivor with a curious glance.

“Something wrong?” 

Eivor’s eyes land back on him, drawn from the sky. He looks almost confused, but the moment passes and an understanding melts his frozen features into something Vili knows better. “Nothing that can be fixed,” Eivor shakes his head, but then his smile returns in a better light and he reaches up to nudge Vili’s jaw, “Unless you’ve been hiding a brain from me this entire time.” 

Vili bats his hand away, his own smile returning. “You just don’t _ understand, _ Eivor, I think on a different level.” 

“Yeah, the level of the ground, which is why you ended up crawling around in the dirt with the pigs that night.” Eivor’s laugh ripples across the empty field, dispelling the chill in the air with an ease Vili can’t imagine from anyone else. His heart thuds in his chest, nourished by the very sound of Eivor’s happiness. If he could listen to it ten times over, Vili would, even if his heart might burst. 

“Let us not dwell on it,” Eivor sighs, walking towards Vili. He juts his chin in the direction Vili’s walked from. “I need to dry off, and rest.” 

Vili notices now the rain dripping from Eivor’s brow, trailing the bump of his nose and gathering at the bow of his mouth. It highlights all these details Vili knows so well, but can’t quite reach. Lately, he feels as though he’s been looking at Eivor from behind a pane of ice, crystallizing every detail into frozen perfection that Vili is entirely unwilling to shatter.

“Vili?” Eivor nudges him, a fist to his shoulder. Vili swallows, blinking himself out of his trance with a sheepish smile, ears turning red as he turns to start walking with Eivor at his side again. He throws a glance up ahead to see how far they might have, nerves beginning to light up one by one as he considers stepping closer to the conversation he’d tried to hold the other day, before Ivarr’s interruption.

An admission, more than a conversation. Vili just hopes that… a conversation might follow. 

They walk in that comfortable, odd silence for a while, in this seemingly endless field that grows darker with each step, the sun sinking far beyond the horizon. It feels timeless in this space between day and night, and Vili wonders if he could just… stay here, with Eivor. They don’t need to say anything, this comfortable existence would keep them where they need to be. But then Vili looks up and sees the first faint glimmers of starlight hung upon a purple sky, and he knows this world isn’t made by fleeting wishes but by word and deed alone. He has to say it.

He swallows again, willing some words to appear. Where does he begin? He had a plan last time, but this time… nothing. Maybe he should just--

“Vili? Are you alright?” Eivor asks. “You’re quiet, I’m not sure I like it.” 

“I want to talk to you.” Vili blurts out, a little blunt, a little too eager, but… well, at least it’s out. Eivor’s brow raises, and he slows his steps back to a stop, one hand finding Vili’s elbow to pull him gently to face Eivor. 

“Well, you have me, let’s hear it.” Eivor says, and Vili’s heart skips a beat entirely to hear those words from Eivor.  _ You have me. _ Does he? Not in the way he wants.

“I… I want to tell you that--”

“I said  _ fetch Eivor, _ not run away with him!” Sigurd’s voice comes hurtling over the grassy overhang they stand upon, the rocky shore beneath them where Sigurd stands, beckoning them over. Vili’s blood is pounding, his heart in his ears, and he just stares blankly at Sigurd like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, because how can this happen twice--

“Sigurd!” Eivor sounds annoyed, “We’re on our way, you didn’t need to come and find us!”

Sigurd gives a shrug, pointing skywards. “I saw Synin, but I didn’t see you.” 

Eivor drags a hand along his brow, turning away from Vili with a sigh that rattles through gritted teeth. Is he angry at Sigurd’s overbearing nature of late, or something else? Vili can’t quite tell. 

“You’re here now, it matters not,” Sigurd waves away their obvious irritation, “We are discussing our plan, going forward. Seeing as you’re the one Guthrum summoned, it might benefit you to be there.” 

“Yes, _ it might.” _ Eivor repeats, words dripping with sarcasm. Sigurd doesn’t seem annoyed in the least, however, shooting Eivor a pointed smile before he turns and begins to head back, clearly expecting them to follow. Once Sigurd’s out of earshot, Vili turns back to Eivor.

“Eivor, it’s fine--”

“No, I want to hear you say it.” Eivor growls, and Vili grabs his arm as Eivor pushes past him.

“Say  _ what?” _ Vili frowns, not missing that deliberate choice of words. Eivor stares at him, eyes widening slightly, like he didn’t even realize what he’d said. Vili hasn’t dared to hope until now, but if Eivor knows what he’s about to say, then why are they bothering with this endless back and forth? Eivor’s eyes dart to his mouth, then back to his face, and he lets out a breathless laugh.

“I mean, I want to hear what you have to say, in your own time.” Eivor recovers, but Vili shakes his head, not buying it. 

“You _ know. _ ” He accuses, eyes narrowing as he holds Eivor there. Eivor tries and fails to hide a smile.

“I…” Eivor doesn’t know what to say. Vili feels a strange burst of pride and anticipation rushing through him, almost drowning out his pounding heart. He’s fixated on Eivor totally, the crash of waves receding into a whisper, the rumble of thunder nothing more than a breeze at his ears. Time seems to slow around them. He watches as Eivor reaches up like he’s about to knock his chin again, but he feels a warm hand at his cheek, thumb ghosting the scar that’s carved across it. Vili leans into his touch without thinking, lips almost brushing the inside of Eivor’s hand like he wants to spill his secrets right here and now, knowing Eivor would hold them safely. Slowly, Eivor’s fingers curl around his neck and bring him closer, until Eivor’s forehead rests against Vili’s own, and Vili can see every fleck of colour that makes up his aurora eyes. He’s seen them up close before, but not like… this. What  _ is _ this? Vili has no idea. It feels right, but it isn’t what he wants at the same time. Not  _ enough. _

“I know,” Eivor murmurs as though he can hear the raging thoughts behind Vili’s eyes, “But we deserve better than this.” 

“I don’t care, Eivor, I don’t--” Vili wants to argue, but Eivor shakes his head gently, shushing Vili with gentle fingertips pressing over his lips. 

“If you tell me now, I will think of nothing else until I can have you.” Eivor laughs, and Vili feels every little bit of tension melt away until he’s holding onto nothing but Eivor. “We will draw our blades against Aelfred, against Wessex, I will see my oaths to clan and kin fulfilled, and then…”

“Then what?” Vili whispers, nudging his nose against Eivor’s, daring to get closer. Eivor doesn’t stop him.

“Then we see what fate has for us.” 

Then Eivor pulls away, leaving Vili cold, but not without hope to keep him company as the night closes in and the fog draws near, thunder singing overhead as he watches Eivor walk away.

* * *

The camp is warm when they return, staving off the worst of the rain with the fire going strong, spitting and smoking in the centre of their makeshift grounds for the night. Eivor’s used to leaving his heart behind in favour of a clear head, but turning away from Vili after being so close had only stirred up a torrent, leaving his mind murky and muddied save for any thoughts he might have of Vili himself. He truly doesn’t mind it, but with tomorrow looming and Wessex hanging by a thread, Eivor finds himself once again trying to balance on a very precarious ledge. 

“There he is!” Sigurd gestures towards Eivor, as though it’s his fault Sigurd is pacing around the fire despite having seen him only moments ago. Eivor just scowls at him. He knows what he’s done. The glimmer of amusement he sees in Sigurd’s eyes only confirms it. 

“Oh, with a face like a shrivelled sack,” Ivarr drawls, eyes flitting between Eivor and Vili, who follows a few steps behind, “Trouble brewing?” 

“There will be.” Eivor promises, angry gaze landing on Ivarr. Ivarr just smiles back at him, sharp and terrible. Ubba interrupts, holding a hand out in front of Ivarr to stop the conversation in its tracks. 

“Eivor, we were just discussing our plans. Remind me, where has Guthrum summoned you?” 

Eivor watches where Vili crosses the camp and takes a seat on an empty log. He follows, almost absently, half-turning to Ubba to answer his question. “Werham. It’s far south, beyond Wincestre.”

Eivor remembers his brief time in Wincestre, led around like a fool by Aelfred himself. Used and discarded once he became an enemy to their Christian ways again, far from the safety of circumstance. It left an ill taste on his tongue, despite the medallions he procured for Hytham as part of it. To be cast aside so quickly… echoes of Havi in his mind cry betrayal, a warning, that someone who speaks so easily with Loki’s tongue should be kept at arm’s length. Eivor will make sure Guthrum knows that. 

“We received a messenger while you were scouting,” Ubba says, his stern gaze lit by the flames, “Reports of a warband marching on Uffentune. If we could stake our claim before you meet Guthrum, it will only strengthen our position.” 

“We don’t have the time, and I promised Guthrum my aid.” 

“Of course, and you will keep your promise,” Ubba continues, then gestures to Sigurd across the camp, “Me and Sigurd will go north to Uffentune, we will take one ship and no more. If we deem the risk too great, we will come south, but you need every advantage we can rip from Saxon hands.”

Eivor shares a look with Vili, hidden from the others as he turns to go and sit beside him. Every hour seems to grow more uncertain. He’s not sure this will go the way they want. Eivor sits, knee bumping into Vili’s as he settles, and then he looks across the fire to Ivarr.

“And you?” 

Ivarr gives Eivor a mocking bow. “I follow in your lordly footsteps.” 

“His choice.” Ubba adds, and Eivor quirks a brow at that. Interesting. But he won’t deny Ivarr’s blade. Eivor’s confident that Ivarr’s learned what Eivor will do to him if he shatters any illusion of peace this time. 

“I’ll be on my _ best behaviour, _ Wolf-Kissed.” Ivarr seems to read his thoughts, and Eivor grinds his teeth, fingers digging into his knees where his hands are resting. Vili’s busied himself with the wrappings on his axe, the haft resting upon the stony ground as he rewinds the leather cording, but ever so subtly, Eivor feels Vili’s knee coming to rest against his own, and his ire dies just as quickly as it had sprung to life. 

“Then… we have our paths to follow.” Eivor gives Sigurd a nod across the fire. Where they meet is a strange place, touched by things no mortal should ever have seen, but they share a knowledge that they carry something within them that can help, as much as it has hurt them up until now. And with how much they stand to gain, it would be selfish of them not to use it. He trusts Sigurd. Not as much as he once did, not blindly, but truly, when he can see the path before them.

The night descends into a muted affair of quiet conversation and uneasy laughter, until sleep hounds them into their tents ready to suffer the morning hush. 

When morning rises, it does so without the sound of birds or the sigh of a breeze to accompany it. Silence lingers like a poison cloud, slowly choking out the faint flickers of hope that Eivor might have woken with. He stares up at the blank canvas tent, weighed down by the night’s rain but still standing, and he’s left to wonder if they will find the same fate today. Slowly, Eivor rises and goes to greet the day with a heavy smile, throwing himself into the nearest thing resembling work. The tents are rolled down and packed away, the fires are put out, nearly all traces of their stop here are removed, and they at last stand on the shore, waiting to part ways. 

Ubba’s deep in conversation with Ivarr, who seems surprisingly morose this morning. Eivor can’t pick up anything from their muted words, and he gives up trying when he hears his crew jostling around on the ship behind him. He feels a nudge at his side, and turns his head to find Sigurd standing there, wearing an expression that’s somehow both smug and concerned at the same time. 

“You will be careful in Werham.” Sigurd tells him, and it’s not a politely worded request as much as it is a demand. Eivor fixes him with a questioning glance, and Sigurd meets his gaze with concern heavy in his own. 

“I always am, brother.” Eivor reassures him, putting aside the doubts he carries. It would be no benefit to Sigurd if he was forced to carry them too. Sigurd lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. Did Eivor misunderstand his meaning? He frowns, not in the mood for wordplay today.

“Oh, don’t look so sour,” Sigurd smiles, “I know you will be careful. It just lightens my heart to know you still have the same response, after all these years.”

Eivor rolls his eyes, but his frown disappears and a smile begins to creep onto his face instead.

“Only because I hear the same words.” Eivor tells Sigurd, and it’s easy to think he’s setting foot in Mercia for the first time again with Sigurd at his side, spinning tales of the glory they’ll find here. In some ways, he wishes that were the case. Now they stand at the other end of the thread, unravelling rapidly towards an uncertain future. A contemplative silence finds the brothers as their laughter dies quietly between them. 

“Have you told him?”

“Tol- wh-- what?” Eivor chokes on his own words in a rush to get them out. Sigurd’s grin turns even more wicked, but his eyes turn away from Eivor to search the camp, brightening when they find what they want to see. Vili hauls two shields from a dwindling pile of weapons, passing them along to Rollo and Birna, getting the last of the supplies from the shore to the ship. Eivor notices he looks tired, and a twinge of guilt tugs at an aching heart to see it. Maybe he had a restless night because of the storm - Vili never slept well with them, Eivor remembers plenty of nights in Stavanger where he’d sit up til the early hours with Vili, talking or playing Orlog until the sun rose and the storm fell away. Eivor also knows he’s reaching for a conclusion that would ease his guilt - he’d left Vili in a dangerous place last night, caught between confession and consequence, with no telling of when they’d be able to see their conversation through. 

He’s only pulled from his sinking thoughts by the feeling of Sigurd’s gaze boring into him again, and he turns to his brother with a scowl. 

“You’re relentless.” 

Sigurd shrugs, folding his arm across his middle. “You never showed an interest in anyone else when we were younger, and thus deprived me of all my rights as your brother to poke you about it. I am simply making up for lost time.” 

“Yeah, well…” Eivor doesn’t have an insult ready to sling back, for once. He simmers away in silence, eliciting another gleeful laugh from Sigurd. 

“You are redder than Muspelheim’s fires, brother,” Sigurd flicks Eivor’s ear, and Eivor bats him away with a growl, then pulls his hood up over his face.

“Don’t you have a ship to board?” Eivor mumbles. 

“That I do.” Sigurd’s laughter grows quiet again, and then his arm lands around Eivor’s shoulder a moment later. “We will reach Uffentune not long before you reach Werham, if the day is kind. Once we take it from Saxon hands, we’ll regroup along the river.” 

Eivor nods, sighing quietly. Uffentune seems too much of a risk to take when they’re this close to King Aelfred, but he trusts Ubba’s judgement. They will take it if it’s within their reach, and if it isn’t, they will retreat. That’s all. Eivor tries to tell himself that, but it comes through in broken fragments, shattering against this unmoving pillar of doubt that’s stood in his mind. 

“Go no further than you must, Sigurd.” Eivor warns, unable to voice the full extent of his doubt. He just hopes Sigurd has the sense to know what he means. Sigurd’s hand squeezes his shoulder, and Eivor takes it as a gesture of understanding - the binds of fear loosen their hold on him, enough that his next breath comes far easier to him. 

“Sigurd!” Ubba’s voice carries over to them, “Are you ready?” 

Sigurd gives a nod, then one last glance at Eivor, and then he’s walking away, leaving Eivor wondering on the manner of their return.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was at this point in the game i had to buckle up bc nothing could have prepared me for the insane ride ahead let me tell you

The sky is a flat and empty grey, hiding any trace of sunlight behind an impenetrable layer of gloom. The air is rendered still and silent, no wind, no rain, no nothing. Eivor makes a noise of discontentment, if only to shatter the quiet, teeth gritted as he pushes on with Ivarr on one side of him and Vili on the other. He’s oddly comforted by the balance of both - Ivarr’s simmering rage, waiting for the spark to send it alight, and Vili’s steadfast presence there to keep the fires at bay. 

“Werham. Another Saxon shithole, Eivor, haven’t you seen them all now?” Ivarr pipes up, having been in a gloomy silence for much of the way here - entirely unlike him, Eivor thinks, but he isn’t going to question his blessings on a day like today.

“Some are nice.” Eivor answers bluntly, shifting slightly when he feels Gungnir on his back hitting a few stones underfoot. The spear barely weighs a thing, and yet he feels its every touch as though it were his own body receiving it. Ivarr’s hand accidentally brushes the spear in its holding as he holds his arms out in a mocking gesture, like he’s waiting for raucous applause from the empty field. Though it’s Gungir that Ivarr hits, Eivor feels a strange sensation tingling up his neck when he does. He forces his jaw to unclench - if he grinds his teeth any further, he’ll be eating bone dust. 

“Mhm, the smell of pig shit and muck that they’ve buried their dead kings in, it’s to _ die _ for.” Ivarr kicks a stone, sending it shooting off the path into the grass. Eivor watches it, then continues on in silence.

“Thor’s balls, you’re a delight today, Wolf-Kissed.” Ivarr throws after him.

“Is he annoying you?” Vili murmurs at Eivor’s ear, and Eivor just shakes his head. No, it isn’t Ivarr that plagues his thoughts as they walk the road to Werham, looming just ahead with Saxon banners hanging limply from their posts in the still air. 

“I worry what words Aelfred will drip into Guthrum’s ear.” Eivor explains after a moment, eyes narrowing as he sees figures standing at the gateway, too far away to make out the details of just yet. 

“Guthrum’s seen more shit than a puckered arsehole, he’ll see the Elf-King’s words for what they are before they even hit the ground.” Ivarr’s words are, for once, astute. Eivor gives him a sidelong look, just for a moment before he’s looking back to the path.

“Do we know much about… any of this?” Vili asks, gesturing loosely towards Werham in the distance. Eivor hums in thought, fingers curling around the strap that holds Gungnir to his back. Do they? In parts, yes. But those parts are just that - parts. Incomplete and useless without something to hold them together, and that is what they lack. It brings to mind an unwelcome thought, that the fragmented ideas driving them to Wessex are a poor mirror for their incomplete ambitions. These disparate fighters roving across England in search of a home, endlessly unsatisfied until blood spills and silver follows, they have never been able to draw a line and say the day is done. They will not do it here either. Eivor cannot see how - they have never known what peace looks like.

“Other than the fact the Elf-King is a fucking snake?” Eivor snarls, eyes fixed on the gates. His blood rages beneath the skin, burning away at the layers of patience he’s holding onto with both hands. “No, we know nothing. I believe Guthrum wants a peaceful path to this kingdom, but Aelfred will not give it to him. We’ll see blood before the day is out, so keep your eyes open and your axes close.” 

“Oh, sounds like you’ve been bitten.” Ivarr’s smile is gleeful, shaped by a hunger for blood far more than it is at Eivor’s expense. Eivor exhales sharply, breath fogging around him for a moment as he drops his hands back to his sides again. He feels Vili’s hand around his wrist then, squeezing lightly, and then it’s gone, and Eivor’s blood quietens, singing for a different reason now. He shoots Vili a quick glance and finds him looking straight ahead, brow furrowed with thought. Eivor wonders what lies on his mind, and hopes beyond hope that his words to Vili last night won’t mire his thoughts today. He needs Vili at his best, because Eivor feels far from his own.

“I will bite back,” Eivor chuckles thinly in response to Ivarr, a cold sound, “Twice as hard. Kjtove sullied my honor back in Norway, and I made him pay a blood price for it. Aelfred will find himself drinking raven-wine sooner or later.” 

"Yes, _that_ is what I like to hear!” Ivarr’s smile grows wider, more lethal in the grey light of morning than it has any right to be, and Eivor tries not to linger on how it stirs his anger back to boiling blood beneath his skin. His fingers catch on Vili’s as his hand sways at his side, his steps bringing him now to the gate where one of the figures becomes easily recognizable. Soma. Eivor’s steps lighten with the sight of an old friend, and his rage softens into something almost resembling a smile as she greets him.

“Eivor!” Soma looks just as she did when Eivor first saw her, the same dark gaze, the same heavy brow - time has left her untouched, and where she stumbled before in the wake of losing Galinn, she strides with purpose now. Confidence. Eivor’s glad to see it, and reaches out his arm for her to clasp. She meets him with a smile of her own.

“It is good to see you.” Soma tells him.

“And you, Soma.” Eivor assures her, but his eyes drift to the soldiers pacing around the muddy paths of Werham - Saxon and Norse alike, running tracks into the mud as they shoot angry gazes across the field of a temporary truce. Much like Alrekstad, years ago. The same tension lingers here, the same feeling of walking on ice that might shatter underfoot if he so much as looks the wrong way. For now, Soma holds him steady.

“There is an uneasy peace here.” Eivor points out quietly, releasing Soma’s arm. He juts his chin towards the banners, still in the non-existent breeze. “Both armies with their hackles up. Was blood spilled here?”

Soma sighs between gritted teeth, frustration spilling out instead of words. “No. We took Werham without resistance.” She turns, fixing her dark gaze on a passing Saxon who stops just short of spitting on the ground. “They stand beside their lord, as we stand beside Guthrum.”

Her words clear some of the fog that lingers on the situation, Eivor was only summoned by a vague letter in Guthrum’s name and the brothers Ragnarsson sent to him with even less to go on. This fort, this Werham - it is not where Guthrum means to stop. Eivor can’t help the slight hope that flickers to life in his chest, hope that he might truly be able to sink the teeth of his blades into England’s stubborn heart, and leave Aelfred an empty vassal of nothing. Eye for an eye. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Havi laughs.

“This fort is not the sum of Guthrum’s ambitions, then.” Eivor dares to voice that hope aloud, searching Soma’s expression for any sign of conflict. He finds the first dreaded flicker of doubt, clouded in Soma’s battle-hungry eyes. Eivor’s brow furrows just slightly, lifting a thumb to rub at his lip, thinking. “He means to bring Saxons to the table?”

Do they share their spoils now? Invite Saxon ways into their hearth and home for the sake of a piece of land? Eivor bristles at the notion of people like Guthrum bending the knee so heavily. Peace is an admirable goal, but not at the cost of honour. 

“If he can win peace without a fight, he will do so.” Soma confirms, and Eivor feels the ice beneath his feet starting to crack.

“And how likely is that?” Eivor wonders. Soma’s expression is paper-thin, barely covering up the storm he sees brewing in her gaze, but she only shrugs and gestures behind her to the god-house, cross held aloft in the empty sky. No brightness, no gilded light, only a gaudy symbol of their devotion sticking out like a sore thumb.

“They sit in the church, talking in circles.” Soma sighs, “Come. I will take you to them.”

Eivor follows her through the dirt paths of Werham, feeling hungry eyes on his back as he goes. He briefly looks to Ivarr and Vili, both wrapped up in a tense silence but caught at opposing ends of a pendulum swing - Vili, resolute and steady at his apex, Ivarr, simmering and lying in wait for the fall. 

“They… I assume you mean Guthrum and Aelfred, and his lackeys.” Eivor falls into step alongside Soma, gaze roving over the stoic lines of Norse and Saxon blades, all keeping to their own boundaries within the fort.

“Yes. The King of the West Saxons has agreed to negotiate.” Soma nods, “Seems we have him on the back foot.”

Eivor isn’t so sure. Not after Wincestre. Aelfred had played him like a string on a lyre, and then snapped him free of the binds without warning. He would try the same with Guthrum, and for all Guthrum’s wisdom, Eivor worries that Aelfred will have the edge to cut Guthrum free whenever he considers his time is done. 

“Aelfred speaks with Loki’s tongue.” Eivor rumbles, half a warning, though he knows it will fall flat against Soma’s trust in her jarl.

“Guthrum is not a babe-at-teat, Eivor…” Soma begins, and Eivor waves it off, mood souring.

“Neither was I,” He grouses, “And nor is Aelfred. The fact he is here speaks volumes of his intentions, and none of them are in Guthrum’s favour.” 

Soma’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, then it passes beyond him to Vili and Ivarr. Soma stops, and Eivor mirrors her, turning to face her with an air of defiance, even as she talks. “Then give us counsel. Stand by Guthrum, show our strength.”

Eivor can hardly say no.

He hears the thwack of a sturdy hand hitting someone’s chest, and turns his head to see Ivarr with a hand in front of Vili. “We’ll stay outside, won’t we, big twig?” 

Vili visibly bristles at the nickname, but he nods. “Walking in there with the King Killer in tow wouldn’t bode well, would it?” 

Ivarr smiles grimly, and drops his hand. Vili’s eyes flash with a quiet satisfaction Eivor knows well, and he turns back to Soma to hide his own fighting smile. 

“Fear not, Eivor, I will remain here with them.” Soma looks between Eivor’s companions with a warning glare, and then to Eivor, she gives a quiet, sombre smile of her own. “The king of hayseeds will soon be humbled, Wolf-Kissed.”

The way lies before him, a grey stone path bordered by struggling flowers and greenery leading to the open doorway of the god-house, a cold chill hanging in the doorway despite the flaming torches fixed on either side. The chill grows bone-deep when Eivor steps in and hears voices echoing across the flagstones, tangled in talks that sound nowhere near a peaceful conclusion. Warily, Eivor follows the sound. 

“We took this town as if it were a straw hall!” Guthrum’s echo is a thunderous aftershock, fraught with a brewing tension, “Do not challenge me, Elf-King.”

Eivor turns the corner to see Guthrum facing off against Aelfred himself, stood apart and separated only by the aisle that runs the length of the church. A Christian altar lies beyond them, a wooden cross hung upon the cold stone wall, slightly off-kilter. 

“Your show of swagger and strength has my attention, Guthrum,” Aelfred’s response is clear and cool, a cutting swathe of ice that Guthrum’s fire cannot melt, “But we agreed on terms. What more do you want?”

Guthrum’s smile is not a kind one. “The crown of Wessex.”

A bold claim. Eivor makes his way closer, hand drifting across the backs of the wooden pews, all set at strange angles. As though someone has been through and set this god-house entirely out of shape, stirring up a quiet chaos in the house of orderly faith.

“Wessex  _ has  _ a king, and that king has the backing of the Almighty. Yours is a fever dream, Dane.” Another voice joins the tense fray - one Eivor also recognizes. He narrows his eyes on the figure, until a name joins the face. Reeve Goodwin. Eivor almost sneers, twisted by a bitter rage that he once shared an ale with the man.

“We need not ask for it, Goodwin,” Eivor makes his presence known, steps slowing as he reaches the gathering, “We will take it. As we have taken all the kingdoms of England.”

Goodwin turns his beady gaze on Eivor, and Eivor greets him with a wolfish smile, arms held out to his sides like he’s seen Iovar do countless times. A trick to make your opponent feel as small and stupid as possible. A simple, brutish tactic, but it works, on occasion. 

“Ah, Eivor.” Goodwin scoffs, “Our blunted tool has returned, Lord.” 

Aelfred’s eyes fall upon him then, and they are shrewd, calculating. Dangerous. The chill now permeates every part of him, until he thinks it might chew through to whatever he calls a soul. But then he ignores him, as though Eivor is a speck of dust on the ground, and turns his attention back to Guthrum. 

“I have given you all I care to, a Danegeld to leave Werham,” Aelfred continues, “And you swore an oath upon that cross, as well as your pagan hammer.”

He swore upon the Christian cross? Eivor lifts a brow, giving Guthrum a sidelong look. He feels the man staring back, but he says nothing. 

“And when you scurry back to whatever shit-soaked hovel you crawled from, we will release your men.” Goodwin declares, and Eivor bites back a groan of annoyance. Yet another snag in this thread that they would have to navigate, or otherwise endure - to whatever end. 

“Speak again, handmaid, and I will feed your tongue to Eivor’s raven.” Guthrum snaps. Eivor briefly wonders if Synin would even enjoy the taste of all the shit that Goodwin constantly spouts. 

“A fair trade!” Goodwin sneers, “We already have your cock.”

“Are we done with this pissing contest?” Eivor steps in, tired of the needless talk. There is no peace here. That was decided long before they walked into the church. “If Guthrum has given you his word, then he will honour it. We will leave this town.” 

Aelfred and Goodwin share a look, uncertain. Still, Aelfred gives Goodwin a nod, and the man steps away only to return with a full crate of what sounds like silver. He nudges it along the floor with his boot, right up to where Guthrum stands.

“You have one day. Do not test the king’s patience further, or our men will return to Werham with force.” Goodwin informs them, and Eivor’s scowl feels as though it might become permanently etched into his face. Guthrum’s silence is sufficient acquiescence for Aelfred, whose stone-carved face cracks with the slightest smile, cold and unfeeling.    
  
“And should you doubt my conviction, know that the Afon river near Uffentune is running red with blood as we speak.”

The words pierce the air, each one a cold arrow to Eivor’s gut, almost making him double over as the breath falls from his mouth. He’s barely aware of Aelfred and Goodwin leaving, except for the fact he also catches Aelfred’s parting words.

“Their commander… what did his men cry as he fell? Ulla? Ubba? Yes, that was it.” Aelfred’s profile swims into view through Eivor’s red haze, meeting him there for a fleeting moment before he’s walking off again. He hears nothing else in that moment except the rush of blood to his head, heart pounding between his ears as his rage erupts, blood singing. Any further words from anyone in this godless house are lost, crashing and shattering against the tide Eivor threatens to bring down upon them, all he awaits is Guthrum’s permission. But Guthrum is talking at him, words making no sound, only the shape and the echo filter through Eivor’s haze, and he finds himself growling out a dissent.

“Aelfred hisses with a snake’s tongue, but he gains nothing from this lie!” Eivor growls, and even his own words don’t have a sound as much as they echo through him, out of him, until he feels he could shatter the stained windows of this place with his words, “What are we waiting for?” 

Soma’s voice cuts through the haze, only briefly - the distraction of her arrival is enough for Eivor to listen. “I heard… Ubba… when news of this spread through the camp, no Saxon will survive the day.” 

Eivor lets out a frustrated yell, turning sharply away from the conversation to try and regain some control. A sickening fear is beginning to take root, that if Aelfred is not lying - if Ubba has fallen, then where is Sigurd? A nameless face amongst the corpses gracing the river? No. It cannot be. Eivor sees a glimmer of truth in the clarity of his rage - they could not have long arrived at Uffentune, and Aelfred is using his words to sting, to force them to cower and relent until they stumble back beyond their safe borders. 

“You swore upon the cross!?” Eivor turns to Guthrum, disbelief and rage spilling over. But Guthrum’s rage now matches his own, the older man turning to Eivor and grabbing his shoulder.

“I have no intention of cowing to that milk-sack!” He growls, eyes bright with frenzy, “Now, more than ever, I will take his throne - and his head!” 

Fire meets fire in a raging torrent, and Eivor hungers for battle. “In Wincestre, Aelfred used and discarded me like a tool, so let this betrayer be betrayed. We will burn this village to the ground, after that, we take care of Aelfred.”

Guthrum nods, and it’s all the permission Eivor needs. He pulls Gungnir free from his back and marches out of this empty building, almost barreling into his companions outside. Vili presses a hand to Eivor’s chest, stopping him in his tracks, but Eivor just looks at Ivarr, eyes wide.

“Ivarr…” He has no idea what to say. In his heart of hearts, he doesn’t believe Ubba is dead. He can’t. It calls too much into question for their future, it’s too much to think about right now. Ivarr just looks at him, searching and finding nothing. He grabs Eivor’s shoulder, shaking him, fingers digging into him almost painfully.

_ “Speak,  _ boy! What is it?” 

Eivor growls, “Uffentune… Ubba.... Aelfred claims he fell, I do not believe it, not a word of it--”

There is a blood-curdling howl on the air. It could almost split the sky in two, the force of it makes Eivor stumble as Ivarr’s grip leaves him suddenly, and only Vili is holding onto him. Ivarr is gone. He hears steel ringing, axes swinging, the cry for blood is up, and now no Saxon will leave this place alive. It’s all Eivor can do to look at Vili, ocean-dark eyes laden with a storm, but he’s holding it at bay until Eivor tells him otherwise.

“Burn it down, Vili. Leave no Saxon blade alive.” Eivor whispers, hand fisting in Vili’s cloak for a moment. Vili swallows, mouth opening like he wants to say something, but he only nods and presses his forehead to Eivor’s, and then he’s gone in a blinding fit of fury, greataxe swinging and meeting flesh and bone with a satisfying crunch. Eivor follows him, lungs burning with the effort of his battle cries.

“Burn Werham to the ground! Make it a Saxon pyre!” 

Fire chokes the sky, smoke filling the grey expanse with a dark and twisting cloud, heavy with the screams of Saxon prayers to their god. Today, they go unanswered. Raven-wine paints the ground until Eivor can no longer tell what was grass and what was dirt in between the corpses that litter Werham’s paths. Gungnir sings in his grip, its light spilling out with every hit. The spear is painted red with Eivor’s rage as he hews through countless men, barely stopping to breathe as he surges onwards.

Eventually, there are no more Saxon men to send to their godless Hell. 

Eivor stands amidst a raging pyre all around him, the haze of battle slowly fading and its absence graces him with clarity once again. He searches for Guthrum, and finds him directing men out after some fleeing stragglers. He finds Vili, pulling his axe free from a Saxon skull. He does not find Ivarr, and that worries him, the thought catching behind his breastbone like a hook, pulling him to search. He combs through corpses, but none bear Ivarr’s dragon mark. He circles the burning fort, one hand shielding his eyes from the smoke, and he cannot find any sign of him. Part of him wants to raise the call, to search for Ivarr, and he’s about to turn back when he feels a hand grab his shoulder. Fearing a Saxon blade in the next moment, Eivor spins and throws up Gungnir between himself and the stranger, and sparks fly as Gungnir comes to a halt against crossed axes. Familiar axes.

“We have to go.” Ivarr growls, smoke receding only slightly, enough for Eivor to see pale blue eyes peeking out from a bloodied face as the smoke clings to Ivarr like a shroud.

“We’ll take the ship upri--”

“No! We ride! You and I!” Ivarr leans in closer from between his axes, teeth bared, a streak of lethal white amidst the red carnage on his face. Eivor growls, pushing him back.

“No, Ivarr, we will take the ship, or I will leave you on this pyre with the rest of them!” 

Ivarr almost keels over, and Eivor grabs his armour, hauling him up. “Ubba needs you. He lives yet, I feel it.” Eivor says through gritted teeth, refusing to let Ivarr stumble now. Slowly, but surely, Ivarr forces his steps, and soon walks beside Eivor as they tear through the remains of Werham, gathering men for the ride to Uffentune. 

But first, Eivor must find Soma. He can’t see any sign of her in the rising smoke, but he does see the familiar purple of Vili’s cloak again as he walks with Ivarr through the devastation.

“Vili!” Eivor calls, quiet relief unfolding as Vili turns to him. “Where’s Soma?” 

Vili points towards the northern gate as he approaches, “I saw her there not moments ago. Are you well?” 

“I’m fine,” Eivor assures him, reaching out to squeeze his forearm, “I-- we,” he looks to Ivarr, then back to Vili, “--need to get to Uffentune, now.”

“I heard what... “ Vili pales, trailing off into a nod. “Ready when you are, Eivor.” 

“Good. Stay by my side.” Eivor murmurs, letting go of Vili and heading off in the direction Vili had pointed out. He finds Soma there, just as bloodied as he is, but alive and well. Driven by a growing impatience, Eivor calls out to her. “This place is routed, Soma!” 

Stepping away from her men, Soma’s eyes land on Eivor, and widen at the sight of Ivarr shadowing him like a blood-soaked corpse, twitching with barely restrained rage. She nods, a little uncertain. “Good work, we need to leave. There are forest ruins just to the east of here, along the road--”

“NO!” Ivarr bellows, and Eivor brings his arm heavily down across his chest, holding him in place. He can feel Ivarr’s heart pounding beneath his hand, and it is a violent echo of his own. Eivor looks to Soma, pleading. 

“We travelled to you with Sigurd and Ubba, they took a chance on Uffentune to aid us -- we cannot abandon them if their fate has turned against them.” 

Even bloodied and beaten, Soma’s gaze softens with an understanding. Eivor stood by her as she clawed back her own clan and kin from the brink of collapse. She knows that. She’s felt this same gutting fear, and Eivor had offered her a steady hand while she navigated those dark waters. Eivor watches these thoughts settle behind her eyes, and she swallows, letting out a sharp exhale.

“Then go quickly. Find your brothers.” Soma nods, just once, “I will tell Guthrum… your raven, would she carry a message?”

Eivor looks skywards, and Synin circles overhead, cawing, ready to feast upon corpses. “She may fly with you, then return to tell me where you camp. Once we… find what waits for us, we will meet you there.” 

“So be it.” Soma glances skywards too, only for a moment before she looks back at Eivor. “Eivor… keep your heart steady, we will have need of you in the days to come.” 

An unspoken request for Eivor not to fall to grief, if that is what waits for him. He clamps his mouth shut, unable to make that promise. Instead, he watches Synin and raises an arm to call her to him. She swoops down and lands, sharp eyes flitting across the field. 

“Fly with Soma, my friend,” Eivor murmurs, “Return to me when the moon rises.” 

In truth, Eivor has no idea if Synin understands his words, but she has always had an uncanny ability to appear when Eivor requests, and Eivor has always found a meaning in her chirps and caws that makes sense to him. Perhaps it is just two odd souls bound in a mutual understanding of survival, or something else entirely. Eivor doesn’t question it, he simply trusts Synin to know. She regards him with a tilt of her head, fluffing her feathers before pecking Eivor’s thumb gently, and then she takes off again, this time circling above Soma.

“We will find you.” Eivor promises, and then he releases his hold on Ivarr. The Ragnarsson brushes past him, almost sprinting out of the gate. Eivor shoots a look at Vili, and then he’s following right after.

* * *

  
  
Eivor stalks the deck of the longship like a wolf in wait for its meal, eyes hungry as he assesses the river Afon flowing underfoot, the longship cutting through grey waters with ease. The crew fell quiet long ago, almost as soon as they’d left Werham’s smoke and corpses behind. No whispers pass the river, no songs, no cries of glory - just a deafening silence, bounded in by the looming trees sinking under the weight of their own branches across the river. It resembles a gateway of shadow and earth, where the struggling daylight grows darker still between the knotted and gnarled limbs of the trees. Eivor cannot shake the feeling that they are bound for the eastern door where Hel lies in wait. 

To one side, Ivarr stands, not quite still, but his feet do not take him along the deck like Eivor’s do. He sways like a lone tree, tall and bowed, but utterly refusing to break despite the wounds and scars that litter his body and his bones. His initial rage has quietened into something Eivor cannot see, and that worries him.

On Eivor’s other side, Vili remains steadfast in his silence, braced against the longship’s hull, hands clasped around the edge of it as he peers over the water. He watches his own reflection cut in two by the ripples, and Eivor’s joins him there a moment later. They say nothing, even as Eivor’s own hands come to rest on the ship’s edge, a breath away from Vili’s own. It is enough to know they stand side by side, for now.

The water laps at the sides of the ship, grey on dark wood, the two meeting at a boundary of empty colour as the grey leeches the warmth from the wooden hues. It stays like that for a short while, undulating, almost comforting in its emptiness, but then Eivor sees the faintest glimmer of red on the water. His grip turns knuckle-white and his breathing stills, eyes focused on the way red seems to spread, bleeding out amongst the ripples. 

Aelfred was not lying. 

The distant roar of battle-din reaches Eivor’s ears a moment later, and he looks up sharply. Gungnir sings in the back of his mind, and the sound grows louder as they near the banks of a fog-laden bog, the towers of Uffentune barely visible through the low cloud. They are here. They are not in Uffentune. 

“Bring us to shore.” Eivor calls to Bragi, who wordlessly follows the order. The ship rocks as it veers off-course and heads for the banks of the bog, eventually coming to a stop.

“Are you lost? This isn’t Uffentune.” Ivarr snaps from behind him, and Eivor shushes him with a gesture, trying to listen carefully. The battle-din is  _ here _ . Faint, and dying, but here. 

“Don’t you hear it?” Eivor asks, and he sees Vili step closer out of the corner of his eye. Ivarr’s scowl deepens as he pulls his axes free.

“Quieter than a Saxon missing his tongue, Wolf-Kissed,” Ivarr grumbles, “Push on, before I take this ship for myself and rob you of your glory.” 

Eivor signals for the crew to arm themselves and get on land. The fog is heavy around them, shrouding them almost entirely from each other. 

“They are here.” Eivor says, certain in his judgement, and removes Gungnir from his back as he clambers out of the ship, Vili close behind. Ivarr throws some empty words after him, but Eivor hears the splash of Ivarr’s footsteps a moment later. 

They descend into the fog, eyes wide open, a chill clinging to their skin now instead of the heat of battle-song. Branches graze like fingers over their shoulders and their backs, errant twigs snapping underfoot but the sound is choked and drowned out by the bog. The stench of rot and mud grows thick, and soon the iron tang of raven-wine joins the mix. It’s suffocating, forcing its way into Eivor’s eyes and nose, making his lips curl with distaste, teeth gritted against any noise that threatens to spill forth. 

Gungnir begins to tremble in Eivor’s grip, and Eivor’s attention is pulled to the spear itself. A faint halo of golden light emanates from it, undulating, like a pulse. A heartbeat. He recalls the familiar sensation from a few nights ago as he held it in Ravensthorpe, sat upon his throne. This time, the heartbeat does not match his own - his is a hummingbird’s song, this is a steady and slow thrum of life. And it grows stronger as they press on into the fog. They’re going the right way.

“I hear it.” Ivarr hisses from behind Eivor. The battle-din has grown closer, and they can feel it. A humming on the air, steel ringing, shields splintering. It is in its dying hour, but it still sings. Eivor doesn’t need any more encouragement. He lets out a battle-cry, a roar that thunders through this lifeless place, rippling through the fog until it sends his allies charging through the mists, led by Eivor in a frenzy reborn. 

To go from one battle to another in the space of mere hours is a brutal affair. Bones are broken badly, axe swings land poorly, and they make a terrible mess of the Saxons that have hounded a retreating party of Norse soldiers this far into the bogs, across the river from Uffentune. Eivor finds he doesn’t care, all that matters is the threads of their twisted lives are cut free from this mess and they will find no solace in their Hell. They pick the field clean like ravens to a carrion-feast, and Eivor turns his focus back to the spear that now glows brightly in his hands, a shining beacon in the gloom.

“Sigurd?!” Eivor calls. 

He hears no response from his brother, but he does hear a brutal scream of rage cut through the fog, twisting his every nerve. Eivor sprints towards it, almost colliding with the figure looming just out of sight - Ivarr. 

And there, before him, lies Ubba. 


	10. Chapter 10

The ground is red. Not muddy, not green with grass or softened by the fog, but utterly, _completely_ red. Ubba lies upon it, alone, gasping for breath. Eivor can see his fingers twitching uselessly, struggling for the axe that lies just out of his reach. 

“Shit.” Eivor breathes, going to reach for Vili, who isn’t there. And where is Sigurd? _“Shit!”_

He hears Ivarr growl, watching as the man goes crashing to his knees by his brother, hands flying to stem the blood that pours freely from Ubba’s too many wounds. Eivor doesn’t know what to do. His stomach is twisted in knots, chest constricting with every breath - both exhaustion and fear creeping up on him in the fog, and he hears himself calling out.  
  
“Sigurd!” 

Still no answer.

Eivor stumbles forward, landing a hand on Ivarr’s shoulder. Ivarr glances up at him, face lined with fury and the remnants of battle. He says nothing, but the silence speaks volumes. Ivarr ignores him then, and Eivor is left torn between staying and at least trying to help Ubba, or taking off into the woodline in search of Sigurd.

He can’t lose Sigurd. 

It’s not a choice. 

Just as he turns to run, he spots Vili’s familiar silhouette in the fog, and catches a glimpse of Sigurd’s red hair in the gloom. Vili has him. Sigurd stumbles at his side, Vili holding his arm around his shoulder as he keeps him walking, and when they’re near, Eivor can see why.

Sigurd is exhausted, unable to keep his head up even when he catches sight of Eivor and gives him a bloody-toothed smile. Eivor quickly scans him for wounds, finding too much blood almost everywhere, but completely unable to tell if it’s Sigurd’s own or not. Still, he’s on his feet, more or less, and for now that will have to be enough. Eivor swallows, mouth dry, and reaches out to grab Sigurd’s face, getting his attention.

“Are you wounded?” 

Shaking his head, Sigurd wheezes out a reply. “Just… just a little-- tired.” 

Eivor looks at Vili then, his own face spattered with blood, but he looks unhurt. Vili seems to know what Eivor’s thinking. He nods, just slightly, enough to let Eivor know what he needs to know, and then Eivor can focus on Sigurd and Ubba again. 

“Is he…” Sigurd breathes, looking in Ubba’s direction. Eivor shakes his head. 

“If he can hear those beating wings, he is doing enough to keep them away for now. We must get him out of here.” 

Gesturing for Vili to bring Sigurd over, Eivor turns back to Ivarr. Eivor circles around him, going to the other side of Ubba where he kneels carefully, getting the man’s attention. Ubba stares up at him with pale blue eyes, still bright with life.

“We will get you out of here, Ubba,” Eivor tells him, “This is not your fated day.” 

Ubba almost smiles, but the gesture is pulled by pain into a grimace, and he closes his eyes, a pained noise slipping from his mouth. 

“Where’s home?” Eivor asks Ivarr, looking down at the man’s hand stemming the brutal wound on Ubba’s chest. Likely a spear, Eivor guesses - too substantial for a sword, too small for an axe. A painful place to find its mark. Ivarr’s head jerks up, eyes unfocused.

“What?” He hisses, brow furrowing sharply. 

“We cannot take care of him here,” Eivor explains, “My ship will bring him somewhere safe, but I must know where to send him.”

Ivarr just shakes his head, gaze drifting for a second before he pulls himself back to Ubba, staring down at his own bloody hands. He shakes his head again, and Eivor knows he will get no answer from Ivarr. So he looks to Sigurd, pale and drawn in the dim light, face marked with exhaustion. Eivor almost considers sending him home too, but Sigurd would hear nothing of it, he’s certain. 

“I...” Sigurd has no idea, and Eivor lets out a frustrated growl, looking back down at Ubba. He grabs the man’s chin, tapping the side of his face lightly just to keep him awake. He’s drifting. He feels his resolve beginning to splinter at the edges, struggling to hold himself up under the growing pressure of this fucking mess - Guthrum has fallen into Aelfred’s pit of snakes, and now they might lose a pillar of their campaign for the sake of a boon that they failed to win. 

It can’t happen. Eivor will not allow it.

“Ubba?” Eivor calls, and slowly, Ubba’s eyes focus on him. Good. Eivor presses on. “Where can we take you?”

Ubba breathes out slowly, carefully, keeping himself as still as possible. “I-...” he struggles to speak, “Nowhere--”

“Where are you safest?” Eivor tries again.

“R-” Ubba coughs, and Eivor grimaces at the sight of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, staining his dark beard, “Ravensthorpe.” 

Eivor stares at him, not expecting his home to tumble from Ubba’s lips. Or maybe it’s the blood-loss talking, and this is simply the last thing he recalls with enough clarity to speak it. Either way, it will have to do. He nods, looking up to glance through the fog. Still thick and difficult to navigate, but they would be able to get him to shore, on the ship, and to Ravensthorpe inside of a day. 

He just has to hold on.

They bring the ship through the fog, closer to Ubba, and they get him safely on board. Eivor has a moment where he thinks this longship has seen the weight of far too many drengir brought to their knees lately, but he pushes the thought aside and makes sure Ubba is as comfortable as he can be. They’ve stopped the bleeding, but he’s weak, and unless they make good time to Ravensthorpe, Eivor fears they will be bringing a corpse to the docks and not Ubba Ragnarsson.

That would be a terrible way for a legend to die. 

He grimaces, stepping away to let Ivarr speak his parting words. 

Sigurd is sitting on the shore, watching. His exhaustion has grounded him, but Eivor is only grateful that Sigurd is not the one lying on that ship. He goes to kneel by Sigurd, the two of them watching from the muddy bank. Wordlessly, Sigurd’s arm lands around Eivor’s shoulders and pulls him closer, and Eivor ducks his gaze to the ground, teeth gritted. This could have been them. It so _easily_ could have been them. 

“Let us leave them to go in peace.” Sigurd murmurs quietly, lifting his arm to ruffle Eivor’s hair like he used to when they were children. He holds onto Eivor as Eivor hauls him up to his feet, trying not to notice how unsteady Sigurd feels, or the way he seems to keel over when he tries to stand up to his full height - as though something heavy has hooked itself about his neck and seems intent on pulling him to the ground. Sigurd lets go of Eivor then, walking on his own two feet stubbornly, arm clutched close to him as he disappears into the fog. Glancing back, Eivor watches as Ivarr places an axe on Ubba’s chest, speaking words too quiet and too far away to make out. He swallows back his growing doubts, and turns to follow Sigurd somewhere warmer. 

“We will camp further up the shore! Uffentune stands nearly empty; they will not try to meet us again tonight.” Sigurd calls, voice barely holding, and Eivor hears the footsteps of soldiers passing through the fog, murmurs rising as they begin to relay the order to one another. Eivor can’t quite focus on it all, right now, and he just continues to put one foot in front of the other after Sigurd. He almost bumps into Sigurd’s back when Sigurd stops, and grumbles an apology, grabbing Sigurd to step around him.

“Eivor?” Sigurd calls after him, but Eivor just waves him off. Not now. He just wants to get all this blood off his hands and his face, get a fire going, and just… sit. Breathe. Gather himself ready for another day. 

But he can’t just slip away unnoticed - he is a jarl now, he owes his men a safe place to shore up, and then he can worry about himself. So Eivor changes course, head held up again as he sets his eyes ahead and picks out a good spot for a central camp, calling it out. Firewood is brought to the spot, bedrolls are laid out on patches of sparse, dry ground, and oiled canvas is stretched hastily between a few trees to offer some shelter from the damp in the air.

And then he takes his moment. He finds a clear pool of water, unsullied by blood, and kneels before it, heavily, bones aching with the weight of the day’s events. The pyre of Werham still flickers in his mind. The image of the church has been burned into him, the stained glass casting such beautiful light over the grey stone, cold and unfeeling, tread upon by saints and sinners in search of absolution without discrimination. How much must they give of themselves to their god, their dead god, who cannot walk among them or guide them from a grave? Eivor doesn’t understand it. He can’t. And yet, the peace he found in the eyes of all these Saxons he sent to their own graves, it was unmistakable. Unbreakable. 

Splashing cool water over his face, Eivor meets his own reflection in the ripples below. There is no peace to be found in his tired eyes. His faith is breaking, and he feels it as keenly as any blade, cutting deep into his chest and leaving him exposed. 

There is nothing he can do about it. 

Eivor pretends that it is the blood dripping from his face that causes his reflection to ripple. His eyes only sting from tiredness. That hollow in his chest can be filled with mead and laughter by a fire. 

He will piece himself together with the things he borrows from the people around him, and he will carry on because he must.

* * *

  
  


Soon, a healthy fire is roaring, illuminating tired faces dotted around the camp. For the first time that day, Eivor feels the faintest illusion of safety draping across his shoulders, a comfort from an unseen mother. The wind has begun to pick up, slowly dispersing the fog and whispering at Eivor’s ear where he sits on a log in a quieter part of camp, only a few bedrolls laid about - Sigurd sits nearby on one of them, staring at nothing. 

Eivor’s about to distract him with inane conversation when he sees Vili walking past, fiddling with something on his arm. Frowning, Eivor looks up. Vili’s not in his full armour tonight, his pelt lies on a nearby bedroll along with his purple cloak, and Eivor notices that the bared skin of his left arm is still running with red.

“Vili.” Eivor calls softly, and Vili looks over, stopping almost mid-walk. He lifts his chin, a silent acknowledgement, and quirks a brow, like he’s waiting for Eivor to ask something. 

“Was it an elk or a soldier this time, arse-stick?” Eivor waves him over. He sees the slump of Vili’s shoulders, only just hearing the faintest sigh from his direction, but Vili approaches, still clutching his arm. 

“You’re injured.” Eivor states the obvious, his teasing falling flat. He reaches out, mind and body running on the most basic of instincts tonight in the wake of all that’s passed. He simply wants Vili to be closer. It doesn’t seem a notion worth arguing with, not for the sake of hiding when only Sigurd is around to see it. Vili hesitates slightly, and Eivor notices how his gaze flickers just beyond Eivor to where Sigurd is sat, but Eivor just smiles tiredly and waves him over again, hand held out. Vili steps close enough for Eivor to grab his wrist, gently, thumb wiping away some of the blood that’s run down his arm.

“Sit.” Eivor murmurs, frown returning as he begins to assess the damage. Vili sits on the ground in front of the log, and Eivor hears the quietest whimper of pain. His brow furrows deeper, and he rolls up Vili’s sleeve to find the cause. A skin-deep gouge, likely from an arrow. It sits in the fleshy part between Vili’s bicep and shoulder, nowhere dangerous, but a deeply uncomfortable place to feel the bite of an arrow. Eivor sucks in a breath between gritted teeth as he imagines the sensation, and starts to undo Vili’s poor job of dressing it. 

“If I said it was an elk, would that make it better?” Vili winces as Eivor prods too closely to the wound, but he tries to cover it up with a half-laugh, worn thin by his exhaustion. Eivor’s smile is faint, and his heart twists at the thought that Vili feels the need to hide this from him. 

“If this wound was anything else… But now that I’ve seen it and heard your excuse, an elk shooting an arrow?” Eivor’s laugh is weak, a poor mirror of Vili’s own. “From you, I’d expect it.” 

Eivor works carefully and with gentle hands. If his touches linger too long on Vili’s skin, and too heavily, he blames it on his exhaustion, and not the myriad of thoughts that drift unbidden through his mind of what it would be like to hold him, or to simply be held by him, in a way that would feel like home. To pull the pieces of Vili together on such a simple, physical level like this lets him leave his own aches and pains behind, and that is a feeling that leaves him wanting more by the time he’s done redressing Vili’s wound. He pats Vili’s bicep gently to signal that he’s done, half-expecting that Vili will get up and leave, even if every part of him wishes for him to stay just where he is. 

Vili doesn’t move.

Eivor’s fingers twitch, wanting to feel Vili’s warmth beneath them again, to anchor himself to something so sturdy and unmoving, just to feel safe. He barely brushes Vili’s arm again before he curls his fingers into fists and rests his arms on his knees, holding himself at bay.

“Thank you, Eivor.” Vili murmurs, and Eivor can hear the slight hoarseness to his voice, like he’s swallowed down a thousand other words before these ones tumbled out. And then he’s tensed up like a bowstring, about to push himself up to his feet and leave. Eivor doesn’t know how his hand lands on Vili’s shoulder, because he certainly didn’t think about putting it there, and neither does he think of words before a sound slips out, unexpectedly.

“Stay.”

Vili freezes. Eivor doesn’t know why this feels so strained, why everything seems to tug at the threads that bind them - even the smallest glance or whisper sends a dangerous tremor humming between their soul-deep tethers. This is different to yesterday, and the day before, and the years before that. It’s as though his feelings for Vili have gone from being something that he held in careful hands with quiet reverence to something that now thrums with its own life, burnt into the bones of him. He cannot be separated from it now, not anymore, not unless he’s turned to dust in the process, but then they would have nothing of him.

Slowly, Vili eases himself back down to where he was, and Eivor squeezes gently where he’s grabbed Vili’s shoulder. He leaves his hand there, and the firelight catches the rise of Vili’s cheeks, a slight smile almost hidden from Eivor’s sight.

Time begins to flow once again, passing through the night with a steady current. Idle words are passed between Sigurd, Eivor and Vili, and it almost begins to feel as though they’ve stepped into the days of a decade past, camped out on a hunting trip, waiting for the morning sun. 

With the fog now lingering at the far edges of camp, purple hues paint the bog with looming shadows. The gnarled canopy of branches overhead almost entirely obscures the night sky from view, save for a few spots where moonlight drifts softly through. The fire has waned slightly, casting a softer glow around their smaller, quieter camp - though the faint, tired singing of soldiers can still be heard if Eivor listens closely. 

Vili remains sitting in front of Eivor on the ground, having taken to sharpening his axe with a borrowed whetstone from Sigurd, who lies propped up against a shield, staring up into the woven branches of the trees overhead.

“That’s a… raven.” Sigurd declares as a reedy chirp sounds through the trees. 

Snorting, Eivor fixes his brother with a look. “All these years you have spent in Synin’s company, and you still can’t tell a raven from a warbler.”

Sigurd lets out a weary laugh. 

“And for all these years you’ve spent with me, you should know I am much better at talking than I am at listening, brother.” 

“I know,” Eivor sighs, “Gods, I _know.”_

They fall silent again, sharing tired smiles and unspoken memories of a lifetime ago. Eivor has to stop himself from getting lost in them entirely, fingers drifting along the leather at Vili’s shoulder, noticing how worn it is, and his thoughts shift entirely in a different direction. How many battles has Vili endured without him? How many stories are left unknown to him? Ten years is a long time to walk separate paths, even if Eivor feels like nothing has changed when he’s in Vili’s company again, he knows that time surges on regardless of the people caught adrift in its ruthless currents. He yearns to know all that he’s missed, and to ensure he never misses a day of Vili’s life again. 

He could ask Vili to walk with him now, couldn’t he? To disappear somewhere out of sight, out of mind, and just tell him everything he’s been holding onto so tightly. If he holds onto it any longer, Eivor feels it might break. But it would be done, it would be said, and if Eivor fell tomorrow, it wouldn’t be a regret he would take to… wherever he goes. The empty halls. Or it will simply end, and go nowhere. 

That is another question Eivor has, but it is not something anybody here can answer. So he shoves it aside, roughly, unkindly, leaving a gouge in the hollow of his heart where he once held faith.

Heavy, uneven footsteps pull Eivor from his well of thought. He looks up, seeing Ivarr slinking through the fog and mud, boots squelching and splashing as he approaches, face impressively blank. Sigurd lifts his head to see who it is, and Eivor catches the way his expression is immediately torn, like he’s trying to decide between commiseration or a friendly greeting. He settles for a wave of his hand, before leaning back and staring skywards again. Probably a smart choice, given how Ivarr seems coiled tight with his usual simmering rage, fingers curled into fists and shoulders rigid, even as his arms sway with his unusual gait.

“Bloody useless bastard.” Ivarr hisses, stomping over Vili and narrowly missing Eivor in his beeline for a seat on the other side of the fire. “I let him go for a day and he almost fucks off to Valhalla without me.” 

Ah. He speaks of Ubba. Eivor lets his arm rest on Vili’s shoulder as he turns to look at Ivarr. 

“They will take care of him in Ravensthorpe.” Eivor says, and he’s confident in that. Ivarr huffs, pulling a stick from the bog and immediately beginning to break it into pieces, snapping it over his knee, grinding the wet bark between his hands. 

“He’s gotten all sentimental, now.” Ivarr murmurs, looking up from under a heavy brow at Eivor. “Mumbling some fucking mess about your Randvi, and your… Volka? Vala?”

“Valka.” Eivor corrects.

“Yeah, her.” Ivarr gestures towards Eivor as he recognizes the name, “See what I mean? Leave him sniffing around for a day or two and he’s making friends.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Eivor finds it hard not to smile. There’s a strange jealousy that permeates Ivarr’s words, one that he knows well. It’s easy to feel overlooked when your older brother is swanning through life with an ease you would kill for, while you languish in the mud of your own struggles. It’s a hard lesson to swallow, realizing they will not always be there to pull you free.

“Maybe if he put as much fucking effort into his axes as he did his words, he’d not be bleeding his guts out on your longship tonight.” Ivarr growls back, unamused. 

“Or maybe he would, and then he’d have fewer friends waiting to take care of him. Fate is woven before us, we can only follow where it goes, Ivarr.” Eivor challenges. Ivarr stares at him for a long moment across the fire, before he drops his gaze and chucks the mess of bark and mulch in his hands into the fire instead. 

“What now?” Ivarr asks after a while, cracking his fingers. Vili makes a noise of disgust, shaking his head and returning to focus on his axe, the whetstone grinding just about covering up the noise of cracking bone. Eivor absently moves his hand to find the nape of Vili’s neck, where the shorn hair is, and in a mirror of Vili’s idle comfort on the journey home from Norway, Eivor returns the gesture, nails raking gently along the shorn hair while he turns his focus on Ivarr.

“I’m waiting for Synin.” Eivor glances up, peering skywards through the smallest of gaps in the canopy. The moon has well and truly risen, she should be returning to him soon. He senses a strange flutter on the air, like an echo at the back of his mind, and it pulls his gaze eastwards, towards the river. Moments later, he hears a shrill caw.

_“That_ is a raven.” Sigurd comments. Eivor smirks, but nods, and holds his arm out as he sees the familiar silhouette passing through the trees a moment later. Synin lands heavily on his arm, talons digging and scratching into his bracers as she steadies herself, shaking her feathers out with another sharp caw. Eivor taps Vili’s neck, then points towards a satchel resting nearby. 

“Pass me some berries.”

Moments later, Vili hands him a few dark berries, returning to his seat again. If it’s possible, he’s even closer this time, shoulder nudging against Eivor’s knee. Eivor smiles, and brings the berries to Synin who pecks away happily, feathers fluffing up. 

“What do you have for me?” Eivor asks, running a finger gently over her crest. Synin finishes her berries, shaking her wings out once again, then she tilts her head sharply, dark eyes fixed on Eivor, and begins to chirp. There are no words to make sense of, but Eivor finds a meaning in her sounds, unfettered by the complications of spoken language. They sail upriver, with allies in tow. She has not flown far from her last stop - her feathers are still damp, she hasn’t taken flight long enough for the air to wick away the fog and rain that clings to the Afon. 

“At first light, we’ll sail south along the Afon. They will be camped along the shore there.” Eivor announces quietly to the group.

“Of course,” Ivarr drawls, “Of course, the Wolf-Kissed can speak to ravens. That’s fucking perfect.”

“Word from Odin’s favoured messengers is nothing to shake your head at, Ivarr. We saw it as a good omen in Fornburg.” Sigurd interjects, sitting up with renewed interest in the conversation. Eivor lets Synin hop onto his other arm, her weight starting to make his left arm ache. Once she’s here, she seems to recognize Vili as the man who brought the berries to Eivor, and quickly pecks Vili’s ear. 

“Ow!” Vili turns his head, now face to face with a raven. Synin chirps, and she puffs up her feathers again. Eivor swears she’s learned to boast, somehow. Perhaps she’s spent too long with him. He laughs when Vili reaches for another berry, not to be outdone by a raven. Eivor watches quietly as Vili offers the berry to Synin, and strikes up an idle, meaningless conversation with her instead, more hushed murmurs than words. Eivor’s gaze drifts back on Ivarr after a moment, wondering something.

“I half expected you would leave.” Eivor admits to the Ragnarsson, who’s picking away dirt from blood-encrusted fingers. He stops, giving Eivor a sidelong glance. Then he resumes, almost like Eivor hasn’t said anything at all - it’s only the faltering attempt at removing a particularly stubborn bloodstain that clues Eivor into Ivarr’s thoughts.

“Seems I’m the one cleaning up his mess now.” Ivarr says after a beat, but his voice is worn and fraying. 

“Then we are glad to have you with us.” Eivor tells him, and he thinks he means it. 

* * *

The river run goes swiftly with only one ship to carry the men south along the Afon, Eivor’s own ship hopefully nearing the docks of Ravensthorpe by now. The sun is only just peeking above the horizon line, slowly bringing the waking world to light as the ship is brought to shore, not far from where Eivor spots a line of beached longships - he recognizes Soma’s with Lif’s careful handiwork etched along its hull. 

Eivor feels the shale and sand crunch beneath his boots as he lands, hopping out of the ship. A few more soft thuds behind him follow, his trusted drengir climbing out after him. Scanning the camp, he picks out the looming figure of Guthrum stood by a dying fire, alone, shoulders pulled down by invisible chains that seem to slow his every movement. Regret? Eivor wonders. It would not be out of place in the mire of mistakes they’ve made.

“Let me speak with Guthrum, find out what he intends to do.” Eivor glances over his shoulder to find Ivarr, Vili, and Sigurd close behind. Vili and Sigurd both nod, but Ivarr just looks lost as he stares through Eivor, barely paying attention. Frowning, Eivor decides not to press it this morning, and turns back to head over to Guthrum. 

“Ubba yet lives, Guthrum.” Eivor informs him right away, and Guthrum turns, pulled from his misery by the news which seems to put a light back into his eyes. He heaves out a sigh of relief, rubbing tiredly at his forehead.

“That is good news indeed,” He murmurs, “But it will not save Aelfred from my axe. I will crush that weak and wretched troll with my own bare hands.”

Eivor steps up to the fire, glancing down into its glowing embers. How many more times will they find the Elf-King within arms reach, only for him to slip away unharmed? The first time, he had let his guard down in a moment of necessity, a direction forced by Aelfred himself. This time, Guthrum had fallen for promises of a truce, only to be blindsided by the news of Ubba. There will not be a third time. 

“Tell me what you know of him, Eivor. Soma tells me you have felt his sting before.” Guthrum folds his arms tight across his chest, staring into the same fire. 

“He is a wily fox,” Eivor scratches at his bearded jaw, feeling unkempt and messy after the days of travel, “He appears frail, but draws on an inner strength. He will not be easy to oust.”

“Fury will fuel my army and my claim.” Guthrum states plainly, barely keeping his voice even. Immediately, Eivor shakes his head. That would not do.

“It will not be enough.” He tells Guthrum, looking up at the older man, “You must find a weakness.”

“And that is why I called you to my side, Eivor,” Guthrum returns the stare, “Do you balk at the opportunity to bury the Saxon king?”

“I must first hear a plan to balk at.” Eivor shrugs. 

Guthrum had made him feel completely insignificant in Suthsexe, his rage and desperation had fueled him into Portcestre and to Sigurd - and he’d lost an ally in the process, blind to the chaos that he’d wrought in his grief. Guthrum had seen it, and walked away when Eivor needed his wisdom most. Now it seems Guthrum has been blinded by that same arrow to the eye, the piercing sting of fury that narrows all thought and reason into a singular, blunt weapon: instinct. But here, Eivor knows better. He has learned. He tempers his ire with patience, and that is an impenetrable shield against the blunt and unwieldy weapons of rage. 

That is Aelfred’s plan. Patience and strategy have given him the upper hand, and he will watch as they throw themselves upon his walls to die for nothing at all. Their blood will water his kingdom, and he will laugh at their sacrifice. 

The thought makes Eivor’s blood boil, and he brings his arms across his own chest, nails digging into biceps. 

“Aelfred spoke of Cippenhamm, a squat hovel of sheep and peasants.” Guthrum begins to pace around the fire. Eivor glances up, eyes narrowing.

“Why does he go there and not to Wincestre? Your scouts must know,” Eivor can’t resist the challenge, “They’re the best in England, are they not?”

Guthrum bristles slightly, but it is not anger that shines in his eyes. He nods. “For a holiday feast, their Saxon Christ mass. Aelfred will warm his heels by a fire while our men lie cold in English fields.”

Eivor turns Guthrum’s words over in his mind for a short moment, contemplating. Why does Aelfred retreat to an almost defenseless Cippenhamm for a feast when there are Norse and Dane men crawling through his lands, vying for his crown? Does he wish for them to strike, so that their peace-words are made empty, and Saxon blades can come falling down without retribution? He is a snake, lying in wait for the right time to strike - when his poison is most effective. Aelfred doubts he can win this war through sheer attrition, his Saxon soldiers will not hold off the hordes of drengr shaped for battle from birth. If he can shatter this invasion with one well timed bite, he will do it. 

Eivor fears that the poison lies in Cippenhamm itself. 

But it is Aelfred that they want, and Cippenhamm is their best chance to get him. This is not a choice Eivor envies, and he drops his arms to his sides, looking back at Guthrum.

“I have called upon my allies to join us in this,” Eivor informs Guthrum, “But I must know where to send them--”

“We encountered them sailing here from Werham,” Guthrum interrupts, “It is quite the force you’ve mustered, Wolf-Kissed. They sailed with us, and they made camp further along the shore.” He gestures eastwards.

“Good.” Eivor dares a faint smile, “Is Cippenhamm our final prize?”

Guthrum nods, looking far more certain now than when Eivor found him.

“Then I will bring them here, and we will forge our plan in the fires of our fury. I will not suffer Aelfred’s trickster tongue any longer.” 

With that said, Eivor turns to take his leave. He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder stopping him.

“And Ubba?” Guthrum asks, the quietest Eivor’s ever heard him speak. “How did you find him?”

Eivor grimaces. He can guess well enough what happened. Overrun, rallying back, and Ubba felt the full brunt of a spear to the chest. The details, Eivor would rather not dwell on. He looks up at Guthrum. “He was badly injured, but steady when we got him on my longship. We sent him to Ravensthorpe last night as quickly as we could, I have heard nothing more since.” 

Guthrum’s eyes grow tight with worry. Ubba’s survival is not a guarantee, and Eivor wonders if Guthrum would have sent him to Valhalla there and then, and saved him from the uncertainty. In truth, Eivor’s surprised Ivarr didn’t do it himself. 

Still, Eivor has hope for Ubba - he has not forgotten Ivarr’s words in Tamworth, that Ubba sought peace and even a family, something better and brighter beyond all this warmongering. Doesn’t he deserve the chance to find it? 

Seeing Guthrum’s hesitation, Eivor continues. “He will find it difficult to raise an axe again, but the same could be said of my brother - and he did not turn away from this fight. It may be a similar path that Ubba follows.”

Guthrum seems to take a moment to let the words sink in, and then he squeezes Eivor’s shoulder in a show of appreciation, nodding. A tired smile graces his face. “I called you Raven-Feeder once. At Portcestre, you came singing into battle, hotheaded as Thor. I feared you would burn yourself as much as the walls.” He gives Eivor’s shoulder a solid pat before letting go. “I am glad to see that is no longer the case, Eivor.” 

It is strange to hear those words spoken aloud to him. Validating, maybe. A quiet burst of pride simmers in Eivor’s chest. At least, it’s a sign he’s walking in the right direction, and not turning his fists to iron and steel just to keep hold of the trust people have placed in them. Eivor returns a smile to Guthrum, though it is faint and struggling in the face of the day that lies ahead. 

They part ways to forge their own paths through the day - Guthrum with Soma, to scout Cippenhamm as best as they can, and Eivor to his men, to gather his allies and bring them to this camp.

His drengir linger by the ship, Ivarr standing at the water’s edge with his back to Sigurd and Vili, who face each other in idle conversation. Eivor isn’t sure if that’s a threatening sight or not, yet.

“We need to gather our allies to this shore - they’re camped eastwards.” Eivor makes his presence known, feet crunching over the rocky shore. Sigurd glances up, past Vili and straight at Eivor, his brow furrowing just slightly for a second before he schools his face into something more neutral, and nods to Eivor. 

“You and Vili are faster on foot, go.” Sigurd says easily, waving his hand as if to shoo Eivor away. Eivor knows Sigurd well enough to understand he’s being deliberate in his intentions, but in all honesty, he can’t bring himself to argue against spending some time with Vili. He’s calm and steadfast, despite his bravado - and Eivor already knows that is a front. Vili would be a much needed balm for the constant hum of anticipation that sings across Eivor’s skin today, in wait for what lies ahead.

“And you?” He asks Sigurd, gaze sliding to Ivarr’s back, still turned to them. Sigurd follows Eivor’s line of sight to Ivarr, and Eivor hears Sigurd’s sharp sigh.

“Ivarr and I will find some strategy in this mess. Go on.” Sigurd presses, “I feel as though you may yet bite the next person who looks at you wrong.” 

“And you’re offering Vili as a sacrifice?” Eivor snorts, “How generous of you.” 

Vili’s laugh is a quiet little thing, almost swallowed up by the lapping of the river against the shore and the sound of Sigurd’s boots walking away, but Eivor catches it nonetheless. 

“Well, something tells me he won’t mind if you do.” Sigurd throws over his shoulder, and leaves Eivor standing there, ears burning.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a sliiiightly shorter than usual chapter, only because there's a behemoth of an emotional drop coming soon and i figured it would be kinder to split it because wowie if i felt devastated writing it, it was gonna be hard to READ
> 
> so here we go! hopefully short and sweet but just as enjoyable <3

Eivor springs up the river cliff with the ease and nimbleness of a mountain goat, leaving Vili scrambling for handholds in his wake, grunting with effort. 

“Slow  _ down--” _

Vili speaks through gritted teeth, Eivor can hear it. He turns to peer over the edge, offering Vili a hand up, but not without a smug grin splitting his face almost in two. He can just about see Vili’s dark brow, furrowed with effort and a thinly-veiled frustration that his strength doesn’t outmatch Eivor’s speed, even now. He steadies himself and reaches up, grasping Eivor’s arm firmly, and Eivor hauls him up the rest of the way until Vili can plant his feet on the grassy ridge. 

“All these years you’ve had to practice, Vili…” Eivor chides, stepping backwards, letting his hand linger on Vili’s arm before it falls and he turns away with a crooked grin. He hears Vili make a noise of protest behind him.

“I have no need to practice running away, unlike some.” 

Eivor laughs, the sound ringing out clear and unburdened. He feels lighter in himself, as though he’s left his troubles at the bottom of the river cliff and now it’s only Vili that he can bring himself to care about. And that is nothing like a burden at all, but a blessing instead. 

“It’s alright,” Eivor throws over his shoulder, “You are allowed to be jealous, I won’t tell.” 

He receives a shove in the back for his words, grinning as he stumbles forward and rights himself. Moments later, he hears Vili’s laughter join his own, and then he feels his presence at his side again when he falls back into step with him. The sun has risen over the water now, pale and broken by thin clouds, casting a weak light upon the Afon running below. It’s still and quiet up here. If the promise of a blood-soaked night wasn’t laid before them, Eivor would call it peaceful. 

They walk together for a while, crossing the cliff headland that will bring them to the next river bay where Eivor’s allies await. It’s a welcome break from the growing tension in the camp, made sweeter by the fact it is only Vili here with him. He slips easily into memory, thinking of times where they’ve walked like this along countless roads, their steps a mirror of each other’s own, thoughts shared without thinking, words spoken without speaking. Just knowing each other by the sheer virtue of their presence - that is a rare gift to find in another, and now more so than ever, Eivor finds himself wondering how he ever went without it.

“You know, I am looking forward to a hot meal at the end of this, back in Ravensthorpe.” Vili speaks his mind, and Eivor glances at him. He’s already thinking beyond tonight, and Eivor hasn’t begun to even think beyond the next hour, not with the way things have been going. For Vili to look forward to something so simple as a meal in the place he calls home, it’s a different side to him than the one Eivor had found in Hemthorpe, side-stepping every mention of ever settling down and calling somewhere home. A bitterness stings Eivor’s heart then - he’d promised him a home in Ravensthorpe, and he’s yet to enjoy the comforts of it, because Eivor has dragged him into a war he’d never shown any interest in for the selfish sake of having his company.

“I am sorry, Vili. I brought you to Ravensthorpe, and you’ve barely had the time to enjoy it.” Eivor tells him, words heavy with regret. Vili looks at him as though he’s speaking another language entirely, laughing breathlessly.

“Sorry for what, Eivor? This is the life I wanted, the life I asked for.” Vili says, “To raid and live with you-- with the Raven Clan, not to sit and grow old and withered in a garden, ripened like barley.” 

Eivor snorts at the image. It’s strange to think of Vili like that, with grey in his hair, his eyes drawn with the years behind him, resting idly in the summer sun with no axe in sight. Strange, but… sweet. And it has settled somewhere in Eivor’s heart already.

He is too far gone on this man, and it’s almost laughable. 

“Old and cranky,” Eivor smirks, trying to put the image aside, “That will be more like you.”

Vili beams back at him, and Eivor feels his burdens lifted once again. They continue on, pace picking up as they begin to see the dip in the headland that tells them they are nearing the bay. 

“I do not mind waiting.” Vili murmurs so quietly, that Eivor would have lost it to the slight breeze if he hadn’t been inching closer to Vili’s side as they walk. His heart seizes with a bright light, and it takes everything not to spill it right there and then. Eivor swallows back his words, skin flushed warm beneath his layers and not because of the morning sun. He glances down to where his knuckles brush against Vili’s as they walk, and catches Vili’s fingers lightly with his own.

And when Vili makes no move to pull away, Eivor joins their hands properly, and continues on.

Somehow, it feels exhilarating and terrifying all at once to walk like this. They’ve done it before countless times as children, stumbling through barren meadows and chasing after birds in the snow. But where thought was abandoned as they held onto each other back then, it has returned tenfold for all the years that have passed since. Vili’s hand is warm and strong, and Eivor can feel the lattice of scars and nicks that he’s gathered over the years, drawing a map of missed experiences for Eivor to read. Slowly and surely, he begins to trace each one into memory. 

“Broga!” 

The sudden shout from a distance pulls both of them apart, and Eivor whips around to see who it is - but he knows, there’s only one man who calls him that, and he finds that Erke’s familiar reddish hair sticks out gloriously amongst the green and gloom of this headland. Not far behind him, Stowe picks his way through the rocky crags. 

Eivor lets out a surprised laugh, both delighted and utterly confused at seeing them here - they’d paid their oath to him in Portcestre, and he’d sent them on with good will after Stowe admitted his reservations about clashing with his Saxon kin. Holding out his arms in silent question, Eivor walks towards them, closing the gap.

“Sparrow-heart had a crisis of conscience.” Erke explains with fondness in his tone as he glances behind him, offering Stowe a hand past the last few crags. Stowe takes it, and it gladdens Eivor to see them share their closeness freely now, instead of hiding it away like in Lunden. 

Setting each of his hands on Erke and Stowe’s shoulders, Eivor gives them a tired smile. “I welcome your blades and stout hearts, my friends,” Eivor tells them, “We’ll have need of them yet.”

Stowe returns a tired smile of his own, and his nod of appreciation is much more reserved than Erke’s crow of approval as he nudges Eivor’s side, “And you? Are you lost? Wandering the headlands with a handsome Norseman?” Erke nods pointedly in Vili’s direction, and Eivor doesn’t need to look to picture the smug grin Vili must be wearing.

“Erke…” Stowe just sighs. Eivor snorts, lowering his arms and gesturing towards Vili, who’s followed Eivor over. He ducks his head in greeting, charm ever-present in his smile.

“He’s right, you know,” Vili pokes Eivor in his other side, and Eivor’s starting to regret standing where he is, “Vili Hemmingson. And you are?” 

“I’m Stowe,” Stowe seems eager to jump in before Erke can open his mouth, “And this is Erke.”

“Lunden’s steadfast reeves.” Eivor adds, and he can already see the million questions forming behind Vili’s eyes for another time. He gives Vili a look, a silent reassurance that he will explain later, and Vili’s gaze lightens with understanding. 

“Then you are some of our missing allies.” Easily guiding the conversation, Vili rests an arm on Eivor’s shoulder, patting him on the chest, “Now you just have to find the rest, Eivor.” 

Eivor looks at him, defiant, exhaling sharply through his nose at the jab. “Find th-- you’ve barely helped me find anyone!” 

“You are talking to your friends now, are you not?” Vili’s smile is irritatingly charming, even now.

“Yes, friends who probably heard us coming because of  _ your  _ squawking.” 

“Breathe easy, friends, I can tell you the rest of your allies are camped nearby. Come, we will take you to them.” Erke interrupts with a grin, sharp and sincere, as he shoots a glance between Vili and Eivor before turning away to lead them.

It isn’t a long walk down to the bay, and the sight of his allies gathered together - a representation of the bonds he’s forged in his new home - is plenty to bolster his faltering will. 

Eivor stares at the longships beached along the river shore, lying in wait. A veritable wall of shields lies on the shore itself, figures milling around as they fix up the dented timber and reinforce the grips. Silver glitters in the sun as axes and blades are passed around, sharpened and admired, Englishmen and Danes alike bonding over the instruments of war they once wielded against each other. Tents and awnings stretch out of sight beyond the cover of sparse shrubs and bushes that dot the headlands beyond. 

This is far more than Eivor had expected to see. 

“The spoils of England, Broga.” Erke says, gesturing to the sight before them.

“You’ve made many friends, it seems.” Stowe knocks Eivor’s shoulder, smiling. “They await your orders.”

“If my father could see you now…” Vili breathes a moment later, after Stowe and Erke have begun to make their way down. Eivor looks up at him, catching the faintest shadow of grief still lingering behind his ocean-deep gaze, unable to tear himself away from the sight of an united invasion waiting before them. 

“If he could see  _ us  _ now, Vili. You are in this as much as I am.” Eivor corrects him gently. Vili smiles, slack with quiet awe.

“No, no, this is…” He shakes his head, “They are here for you.  _ I _ am here for you. Go on, let’s not keep them from their clear favourite.”

“Vili…” Eivor laughs, watching as Vili begins to make his way down. He stops and looks back at Eivor, eyebrow raised. Eivor follows his steps, and stops just long enough to rest a hand on Vili’s shoulder, and he leans in to speak into his ear, “If I must be their favourite, then you are mine.”

Then Eivor presses on, ears burning, heart singing, ready to face what awaits. 

* * *

By the time the sun has passed its midday apex and begins to sink, Eivor has worked himself into a mindless rhythm of directing longships and hauling supplies on shore in between dealing with Tewdwr’s offers of a poem, and Hunwald’s insistence on describing the mundane process of Eivor’s tasks. At least he won’t be inflicting his clumsily crafted stories on Lincoln at large, Eivor thinks as Hunwald finally decides to turn his attention elsewhere. Despite it all, Eivor is glad of the distractions, his mind feels focused and sharp, the fog from last night and this morning cleared away by purpose and reason now. It keeps his hands steady and his ears turned in to the murmurs and whispers of the growing camp. There’s fears rippling beneath the tide of anticipation, a burgeoning sense of unease - talk of Ubba’s fall, talk of the Afon running red again tonight, talk of an invasion beginning to crumble behind a struggling bulwark of legends.

They are running out of faith in men, and Eivor himself is running out of faith in gods. What’s left? The certainty of blood spilling, blades singing, battle-blood turning to fire in empty veins where hope once ran freely. They will nourish a kingdom on violence and war, feeding their puppet-kings like one offers a corpse feast to ravens, raising their children on stories of suffering so that they might outrun it themselves, one day. What glory is there in that? What happened to the dreams of lush green fields awash with crops and summer blooms instead of raven-wine? Where are the songs of sea-faring drengir, mighty in deed but in honour also? Why do they insist on throwing themselves onto the pyre of Wessex when it cannot be won? 

Stubbornness and pride. That is all they have left. 

Eivor sinks a blade into the sand, pausing to wipe his brow where beads of sweat have gathered under the sun’s weak warmth. The melancholy of his thoughts are taken away by the sigh of the river and the crunch of stone, footsteps moving towards him from behind. Eivor stills, barely turning an ear to the sound.

“You look like you could use this.” Stowe speaks softly, as he always does, and Eivor turns fully to see him. Stowe’s holding a waterskin out to him. Eivor regards it for a moment before he takes it, gaze lifting to Stowe, and then behind him to where he sees the empty space next to Erke, sitting beside a small campfire.

“I appreciate the thought,” Eivor tells him, managing a smile, “But there’s no need to worry.” 

As Eivor takes a drink, Stowe glances out to the river, hands coming to rest behind his back. 

“Even a blind man could see a question plagues you, Stowe.” Eivor comments, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Stowe’s lips lift into a smile, and gives Eivor a sidelong glance.

“And the same man might see that you are riddled with uncertainty.” 

Eivor hangs his head, corking the waterskin with care before handing it back to Stowe.

“Perhaps.” He admits, watching as Stowe takes his waterskin and places it back on his belt. When Stowe remains there, waiting for troubles to spill, Eivor isn’t sure how to begin. Where does the tangle of his twisted faith even start? Did it snag after Portcestre, when he’d found Sigurd as a broken man with only shadows looking over him, no gods to be seen? Was it fraying before he even left for Norway, chasing Sigurd into a fool’s Valhalla? Was it that empty hall that condemned him?

He thinks so. Seeing that fated hall stand so empty of joy has left him cold ever since he’s returned. He thinks too much of all the drengr that have ended up there, and wonders if they now sit in the same emptiness that consumed him. He fears sending his own there one day. 

What is the alternative? To wander forever, directionless, in Niflheim’s cold winds? Eternal sleep in Helheim’s frozen ground? Would it not be better to meet a fate spun truthfully, even if it is a cold and unfeeling one?

Eivor has too many questions, and he knows Stowe has none of the answers he would like. 

“Eivor?” Stowe calls him back from his thoughts. Blinking, Eivor shakes his head, as if he might easily discard the shackles of his fear, but they cling on tight and turn to iron around his throat. 

“Tell me something?” Eivor looks at Stowe, and when the man gives him a stoic nod in response, he continues. “I hear your Christ’s name on the lips of many Saxons I send to their deaths. In their last moments, it seems as though they have found… peace. A certainty in their ending. Is that what your Christ gives you?” 

He hears Stowe’s slow exhale, not quite a sigh, but a sign that he’s giving deliberate thought to something. It’s a few more moments before Eivor hears Stowe’s voice again.

“We live our lives by His example as best as we may, and in death, we hope He will receive us.” Stowe explains, and Eivor gets the sense he’s trying to keep his words as plain as possible.

“Hope, then.” Eivor picks up on that word, and it sparks something deep and almost-forgotten in his chest. “You have hope that death will send you where you deserve. That is not so different to what these men think.” He gestures to a distant cluster of Norsemen, passing shields and mead between each other in between bouts of raucous conversation. 

“These are heavy thoughts for an already weighty day, Eivor. Are you alright?” Stowe’s brow is laden with concern, his shrewd stare seeing right through Eivor’s words.

Looking away, Eivor rubs at his jaw, his words now feeling clumsy and awkward in his mouth. “I am trying to remember what it felt like to have faith.” 

He hears boots on stone again, and feels Stowe’s presence more keenly now. A hand settles on Eivor’s shoulder, reassuring. 

“Would it not do you good to speak with your kinsmen on this?” Stowe asks, quiet and steady. Eivor shakes his head, briefly looking past Stowe at the campfire again, where he can see Vili is also sat, deep in conversation with Hunwald and Eluric. Though, it looks more like ridicule than conversation, Vili gesturing at Hunwald’s glaring lack of armour. 

“I- I don’t think I can. It is my own faith that is tarnished, I have no wish to ruin anyone else’s… least of all his.” Eivor sighs. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stowe turn his head to look where Eivor’s gaze has landed, and when he turns back to him, Eivor feels a strange calmness pass over him. 

“I wondered.” Stowe’s smile returns, but he gives Eivor’s shoulder a squeeze. “You met me in Lunden at my worst, Eivor, and you saw for yourself that it was Erke who kept me standing.”

An unpleasant day, Eivor remembers. Tryggr’s death had been a brutal one. 

“It may not be the worst idea, is all I’m saying.” Stowe says, and his words sound final. Eivor lets them sink in. Time will tell if they will join the mire of his thoughts, or if they stand fast against them. 

For now, Eivor smiles, weak and weary. “Thank you, Stowe. I won’t burden your thoughts any longer.”

“A friend is never a burden.” Stowe laughs quietly, “Come and sit when you have some time. We’ll lift your spirits.” 

With one last nod, Stowe takes his leave. Eivor stands alone against the shore, surrounded by shields and swords as the sun sinks slowly down over the Afon. He lingers there in a cage of his own making, only for a short while - once he deems his penance enough, he puts on his smile and turns to take up Stowe on the offer of company, walking towards the campfire where they’re gathered. He joins the conversation easily, shooting Elruic a pointed glance, nodding in the direction of an adjacent log. Grumbling, Eluric gets to his feet and moves, leaving a space next to Vili that Eivor quickly claims, already beginning to spin a tale for his friends. It is a comfortable place to be for the next hour or two, until he feels someone tap his shoulder, the pink hues of a sun-scorched dusk now flooding across the bay. 

Turning, Eivor finds Sigurd there. 

“Guthrum is waiting for you.”

Just like that, the light is pulled from their surroundings, the sun dipping completely out of sight. Conversation stills and grows silent around him, and he can feel eyes burning into him with his back turned.

Tonight has come, whether Eivor wants it to be here or not. 

He gives Sigurd a nod of acknowledgement and rises to his feet, his hand on Vili’s shoulder for balance, even if he hardly needs it. It’s a comfort he steals, selfishly, before he must face what can’t be outrun. 

Sigurd walks with him, and Eivor finds that makes it almost worse, somehow. He’s caught between keeping his frantic thoughts at bay and spilling his fears to Sigurd, and the tension renders him solemn and silent as they walk. 

Thankfully, Sigurd always knows what to say.

“Did your walk this morning do you good?” He asks, nonchalant, staring dead ahead. It’s a pointed question, well placed, and it finds its mark easily as Eivor is knocked violently out of his brooding contemplation. He stares at Sigurd, not quite able to believe he just asked something so ridiculously irrelevant while they face down almost certain defeat--

“What?” 

Sigurd’s brow lifts. He gestures behind him. “This morning. Do you not remember? I sent you and--”

“I _ remember.” _ Eivor snaps. “Sigurd, I swear to the gods, I will put you on a longship back to Ravensthorpe myself if you keep pressing it.”

“You must think me blind or stupid, Eivor, if you think I haven’t noticed how you are not yourself today.” Sigurd stops him in his tracks, holding his arm out across Eivor’s chest. Eivor hates being caught. He grits his teeth and stares stubbornly at Sigurd, as though that would get him to back off. He knows it won’t.

“You drift as though you are caught on some unseen tide, and for whatever reasons you insist on keeping secret, that man seems to have a hold on you that keeps you from drifting completely out of sight. I am only trying to look out for you.”

That takes the wind out of his sails. Shoulders slumping, Eivor grumbles. “Strange way of going about it, brother.” 

“You are irritatingly stubborn.” Sigurd assures him, and Eivor just closes his eyes with a heavy sigh.

“And  _ you  _ are just irritating.”

They fall silent, but only for the briefest of moments before quiet laughter fills the space between them. Eivor realizes that despite the topic, Sigurd has brought a smile to his face, a real one, not the pitiful mask he’s been wearing all afternoon. It’s a welcome feeling, and it leaves him feeling a bit more at ease when they start to walk up the cliff path again.

“I mean it, brother,” Sigurd says after him, following just behind, “You have been strange of late, far-away and lost in your thoughts. The silence does not suit you.”

“It’s nothing.” Eivor says, glancing over his shoulder at Sigurd. He sees a shadow of disappointment behind Sigurd’s eyes, as though he’d stamped out a stubborn hope. He frowns, almost about to apologise for something he has no idea about, but he stops himself, head dropping as his gaze slides to the ground. “We will be home soon, away from all of this, and we will breathe again.”

Sigurd reaches out to him, but doesn’t quite get to him. “Eivor…”

“I’ve kept Guthrum waiting long enough.” Eivor turns away, and walks the rest of the way alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [sweats] this was hard to write i cried twice and drank at least 20 cups of coffee in the process. also, canon diverges significantly in this chapter and also contains spoilers, obviously, for the final battle in Hamtunscire! so, you know, consume at your own risk

_A cup of honey-wine to trap some wasps._

After that, it was all red. Once Goodwin lay broken on the floor of the church, staring lifelessly up at the cross, Eivor had lost his mind to that bitter, seething rage he’d fought all day to keep quiet. His blood was set alight, eyes aglow, Gungnir singing a haunting song of woe, and Eivor feels no mortal ache nor pain now as he howls through Cippenhamm’s raging fires. Blood streaks his face and beard, eyes stinging with the smoke, ears ringing with the sound of blades and tolling bells as this Christ mass feast is pillaged into ruin, a bitter retaliation for the betrayal Aelfred had given, twice over. And it will not be enough to sate them.

Eivor brings his axe down through a Saxon, clean and sharp, cutting the man’s scream in two without so much as a glance. He looks for familiar faces, familiar colours - anything that isn’t just red. 

“Soma!” Eivor calls in a brief lull of battle, heart aching with gutting betrayal, “Where are you?” 

“Eivor!” He hears her reply, clear through the haze, “The men of Wessex! They come from every house and hovel!”

Eivor sees her then, axe swinging, the blue of her cloak trailing her like a shadow, but she is assailed on all sides with nowhere to run. His heart seizes, blood turning to ice. There are too many, and he is too far away. He tries to run, but his legs won’t carry him fast enough. He stumbles over a corpse, screaming out a warning that will go nowhere.

“Soma!” He hears an echo of his own voice, but not from his own mouth. He sees a brilliant flash of bright blue, ice blue, and Gungnir flashes bright with its own gold light. He feels the collision of a blade against his spear, but no blade is nearby him. When the blinding flash begins to clear, Eivor recognizes the bright pelt of Sigurd in the gloom, wielding Tyr’s blade with a fury Eivor’s never seen before. It stirs his own rage, to come so close to losing yet another pillar of their strength in England… Eivor has had enough.

He gets to his feet and screams with rage, a berserker’s cry, and dives back into the fray.

Eivor has always fought well with Sigurd at his side - they have learned how to, over the years. Sigurd is taller and stronger, but Eivor is quicker by far. The contrast lends itself to a synergy of opposites: where one isn’t looking, the other usually is. It is a lethal combination of tactics to come up against in a bloody fight, and soon, corpses litter the ground at their feet, their breaths wracked by the exhaustion of battle, faces blood-spattered and wild, painted blue and gold and godly by these strange and ancient weapons of war they wield. 

Soma sinks to her knees, completely spent, but alive. Sigurd kneels next to her, eyes alight. “We are falling back, Soma, this is not your day to die.” 

Soma looks around her, lifeless corpses staring up at her - both Saxon and Dane, all painted with the same raven-wine. “They tricked us.”

“As tricksters will, Soma. Come on.” Eivor gets to her other side, shifting an arm under her shoulder to haul her up with Sigurd. She gets to her feet, stumbling, but then she steadies herself and shakes the brothers off, picking up her axe.

“I have come from the longhouse, it stands empty - Guthrum is trying to gain entry, some thegn has barricaded himself in and he refuses to leave.” Sigurd urges, wiping blood from his nose. Eivor nods, looking back to Soma.

“Soma, can you persuade Guthrum to fall back? He will listen to you.” Eivor asks her, and she nods, eyes bright and determined. She leaves them, plucking a fallen shield from the ground as she goes, disappearing into the smoke towards the longhouse.

Then Eivor meets Sigurd, and finds those eyes are spilling out with colour, smoke drifting from them in tendrils that trail Sigurd’s every movement. It’s… vaguely reminiscent of seidr Eivor has seen before, as Havi. He wonders if Sigurd has seen the same. Slowly, the smoke recedes, and Sigurd’s gaze returns to something that Eivor knows better - the same ice blue, but kinder. And he notices Sigurd is watching him with confusion, too, and then his gaze slides to Gungnir in Eivor’s hand.

A scream echoes across the fields, pulling their attention sharply westwards. 

“Go, find Tewdwr and Deorlaf, if they were not with Guthrum they must be nearby. I will find the others.” Eivor blurts out the order, grabbing Sigurd’s shoulder briefly as he rushes past, and heads in the direction of the scream.

All sorts of possibilities rush unbidden through his thoughts as he runs through smoke and fire. That scream could be anyone. A sick feeling of dread pools in his gut, but he pushes on. Dirt paths turn into fields, once golden, now blackened by smoke and trampled, and he hears the familiar ring of steel, followed by a voice that he recognizes.

“Eivor!” Ljufvina sends a Saxon to the ground with an axe embedded in his face, landing at Eivor’s feet. He stops, sensing movement behind him. Heavy footsteps, laden with armour -- too much armour to be one of his own. Eivor growls, plunging Gungnir behind him. There’s a howl at his neck that chokes out into a death rattle, and then another body hits the ground. 

“I thought--” Lfujvina breathes heavily, having rushed to Eivor’s aid, “Gods, this is a massacre. Your Saxon boys were ambushed, one lays wounded--”

Eivor freezes. Vili had gone with them, claiming they couldn’t lift a sword if they tried. 

“Fall back, Ljufvina, we will lose too much tonight if we don’t. Hjorr, you as well!”” Eivor tells her, then calls out as he sees the familiar, gaunt face of Hjorr, returning to Ljufvina a blood-soaked mess. He and Ljufvina share a look, but any word of acknowledgement is lost on Eivor, who has already to make his way to the edge of battle where he left Hunwald and Eluric.

Through the smoke growing thicker and darker, Eivor can just about see the gnarled and bowing branches of a great tree. He’d told Hunwald and Eluric to stay here, to scout, be their eyes and ears - they were never meant to get this close. Gritting his teeth, Eivor pushes through and climbs a fence, hopping down into the tall grass. He can hear pained cries, and another voice shushing frantically. He pushes through the grass and almost stumbles right into Eluric, stopping himself by grabbing the boy’s shoulders, shoving him aside gently as soon as he sees Hunwald on the ground, whimpering and wheezing, a grave wound marking his body. 

“Hunwald…” Eivor’s eyes widen. He hears the whistle of an arrow through the smoke and instinctually dodges, swearing. They can’t stay here. Battle rages, even in its dying throes. “Come, up you get, this is no time for weep-wailing.”

He gets closer, eyes assessing the wound with quick expertise, and a lifetime of experience in the heat of battle tells him that Hunwald will not see morning if they do not get him out. Eivor gestures for Eluric to follow him, before he’s hefting Hunwald up as carefully as he can. He can hear the boy speaking in strangled gasps.

“There is a blackness, closing around my eyes-- Eivor…” Hunwald is trembling, and Eivor holds on tighter. He scans the immediate vicinity as quickly as he can, eyes landing on a small house, unscathed and empty - it’ll have to do. And there is no sign of Vili here, which leaves Eivor struggling to breathe for a moment where he pretends it’s only the exhaustion setting in. 

“Hunwald, forgive me! I should have been quicker!” Eluric is stumbling at Eivor’s side, eyes bright with tears. Eivor can already see the tracks on his face that have cleared the dirt and sweat away, and he regrets ever letting these boys set foot on this field to begin with. Too young. Too soft. He should have left them as they were, strong in heart and will. Eivor feels his own eyes beginning to sting. He lets out a frustrated growl, and kicks the door to the house open. 

It’s cool in here, out of the raging fires. Eivor sets Hunwald down as gently as he can, cradling his head like he would a newborn. Hunwald stares up at him, skin pale and clammy, eyes unfocused, even as he tries to mumble his way through a ridiculous phrase -- and Eivor wishes he had listened to him earlier on the shore, had taken the time to enjoy his words, as terrible and gaudy as they were. He fears he might not hear them again. 

“Hunwald, listen to me,” Eivor folds Hunwalds arms over his chest and rests his hand atop them, “Do not let this scratch best you now, after all you have seen and done, little swan. You have plenty of stories to tell.” 

Hunwald is shaking now, body failing. It’s all Eivor can do to keep him steady, to keep his mind off the pain while he slips away.

“I’m so cold--” Hunwald wheezes, eyes drifting. Eivor squeezes his hands, as though that would lend him any semblance of warmth - but his own are covered in blood, they are brutal, and they are far from a comfort to a boy who should have been safe under Eivor’s watch. Eivor hears a muffled sob from next to him. Eluric is crouched there, hands over his mouth, tears spilling freely now. 

“You’ll warm yourself with mead and dancing yet, my friend.” Eivor murmurs quietly, forcing a smile. Hunwald’s chest stutters with a failing laugh, more a breathless wheeze than anything. 

“Or not, Eivor,” Hunwald whispers, and his trembling begins to still, life beginning to leave him, “Perhaps I go to sit at my father’s side, where he-- he--” He coughs weakly, eyes closing, “Will he be proud of me?”

Eivor has no doubt of it. “He will pull you to his breast, sob bright words of welcome… and tell you no man ever had a worthier son.”

Hunwald smiles. It’s a struggle, mouth painted with his own blood, faltering under the weight of a final fatigue. “I am glad to have known you, Eivor--” He stares up at him, voice failing on the rest of his words. His death rattle comes quietly, a pitiful little thing that is louder than any battle cry Eivor has heard. He stills entirely beneath him, eyes turning dull and glassy, and Eivor knows he is gone.

But he can’t linger. He will lose more if he does not press on. Swallowing back his despair, Eivor looks up to Eluric again, finding the boy well soaked in his own grief. He reaches over and grabs his shoulder, shaking him lightly. 

“Eluric, where is Vili?”

Sniffing, the boy shakes his head. “He-- he saw them coming, told us to stay hidden and-- and ran to meet them. I think he drew them off, he ran to the garrison.”

Stupid man. Eivor almost growls, getting to his feet. “Eluric--”

"I’m staying with him. I don’t want him to be alone.” The boy snaps immediately, and Eivor feels another piece of his stone-heart crack. He just gives him a faltering nod, taking one last look at Hunwald’s lifeless body, before he heads back out into the smoke and fire and battle-din. He feels slow and heavy, like he’s walking through waist-deep mud. Whatever seidr Gungnir had granted to him has worn away, leaving him trapped in the confines of a mortal body that is exhausted and beaten, with only a stubborn soul to keep it going.

He presses on. If the village was this well defended, Eivor dreads to think of what the garrison might have held in store for his friends. 

Part of him wonders if they’re still standing. Who else would he lose tonight? 

He stumbles into a run, and finds the garrison in flames. Battle rages on both sides of the broken gate, and he cannot even begin to see which way the tide is turning. It’s all he can do to dive in, spear forgotten in favour of his axe, if only to feel the satisfaction of tearing Saxon soldiers apart up close. Nothing would repay what has been lost here tonight, but Eivor will take what he can get. He started this fight with a quiet hope that they would find some solution in the mess, that they would salvage this nightmare into something worth keeping - but now that hope has been burned away, and desperation has taken its place.

He will burn out tonight, just like these fires. Until then, Eivor will take as many as he can with him.

Getting the garrison under control takes far longer than Eivor expected. Between himself and Erke, the inner garrison is cleared out and left in ruin. Breathing heavily, Eivor has to stop for a moment, the wound at his side from Basim now beginning to throb with pain, alongside the fresh helping of cuts and bruises that the day has granted him. His lungs are burning. His muscles are torn and broken. He wants nothing more than to find Vili, go home, and crawl into a bed until this all becomes just a bad dream he can forget about. 

“Broga, are you wounded?” There’s a hand at his back, followed by Erke’s familiar voice. Eivor just shakes his head, finding it difficult to even think of words to respond with. He straightens up, blood dripping from his fingers, and wordlessly grabs Erke’s arm. He doesn’t really know what he’s trying to say, only that his mind is scattered into smoldering pieces, and brightest among them is the one containing nagging thoughts of Vili. Where is he? Erke seems to understand something of it, and the hand at Eivor’s back fists in his cloak, keeping him upright as Erke begins to walk him out of the garrison.

“Let’s find my sparrow-heart, then we will return to Cippenhamm and rout it,” Erke’s words are soothing despite their roughness, his own voice thin with fatigue, “This will not be in vain, Eivor.” 

They walk out of the garrison where the fighting has grown quiet. It’s too still. Too empty, even with all this smoke hanging over them. Eivor feels cold again, and he senses Erke’s fear beside him, keeping his own company. Every step is almost too loud, too jarring against the sensation of ice that is slowly creeping in. 

They see Stowe first, on his knees, his back to them. No enemy Saxon in sight, Eivor notes as a habit, before his gaze drops to what lies in front of Stowe.

“Broder--” Eivor mumbles, and he feels Erke let him go, the Dane already stumbling over to Stowe. Eivor follows, circling around and crashing to his knees. His hands fly to Broder’s chest, but he is still and cold, axe in hand. All Eivor can do is look at him, hearing another little piece of stoneheart crumbling away in his chest. 

“Eivor, I’m sorry,” Stowe speaks softly, too softly for this place, “We were overrun until Vili led some of them away, but it was too late for--”

“Broder, you _fool.”_ Eivor bows his head in a stolen moment of mourning, the only time he’ll get to make peace with this before he has to stumble on again. He screws his eyes shut, suddenly unable to look upon more death today. He opens his mouth to speak, to wish his friend well on his journey to Brothir awaiting him in Valhalla, but the words die in his throat, choked by his dwindling faith. 

He opens his eyes, looking away from Broder and up to the horizon, the rolling hills of this shire painted in grey and orange by the fire and smoke, the life bleeding slowly out of it. It would look empty come morning, and they would feel all the worse for it. 

For now, it is still tonight, it is still a battle yet to be won.

And still, there is no sign of Vili. Frustration mounts in his chest, burning, mixing with a potent grief, and it drives him to his feet. He yells, to nobody in particular, throwing a borrowed blade to the ground, the clatter swallowed up by the crackling of flames and splitting wood. His anger runs hot as these fires now. 

“I-I need to find--” Eivor can hardly speak. His hands clench into fists and then unfurl again, uselessly trying to find some lifeline to hold onto, as if there might be some invisible thread that he could follow to Vili. 

“He drew them off back into Cippenhamm, Eivor,” Stowe stands, one hand holding on tightly to Erke, “Go, find him.”

Eivor looks at the two of them, and he knows they have seen it. They understand his bond with Vili more than most. That doesn’t surprise him, but the notion cuts through bitter rage with something softer, a kinder light that leaves Eivor feeling less scorched by their keen observations than if it came from another’s mouth.

He nods. Stowe is right. Looking between them, Eivor can only think of one thing to say. “Stay safe, please.” 

And then he takes off, running towards the pyre of Cippenhamm. 

It is a complete and utter haze that Eivor falls into, barely able to tell friend from foe as he hews his way through the rats that line Cippenhamm’s blood-soaked paths. He’s furious, blood singing like it never has before, and it almost burns him from the inside out. Bones crunch and raven-wine spills freely under the relentless barrage of his axe-swings, Gungnir now only in his hand to parry away feeble attempts to land a hit on him. 

He sees glimpses of his friends and allies in brief moments of clarity. Geadric, Tewdwr, Deorlaf - all prepared to kill their countrymen to keep Wessex’s plague at bay. Ivarr emerges like a fiend from the smoke, covered in blood from head to toe - Eivor can imagine he paid the Saxons in kind for what they’ve done to Ubba. Ljufvina clears the fields, her howls of rage following every axe swing. Sigurd is a whirlwind of strange seidr, all too happy to send his enemies to their Hell while he sings of his own Helheim, how it would spit them out as bones and dust, their bodies not worthy even for the worst of the gods. Following a trail of corpses, Eivor sees Soma and Guthrum, clearing the steps to the church where it all began.

It is almost over.

But still, he cannot see Vili.

Someone calls his name, the sound cutting through the air like a resonant hum. Eivor turns, hearing the whistle of an arrow through the air following shortly after. He can see the arrowhead as time seems to slow around him, the feathered fletching twisting in the air as it guides the bolt towards Eivor, and he’s almost certain he will lose his eye--

_Thunk._

A wooden shield blocks his view, and Eivor gasps, stumbling backwards until something catches him, something strong, something warm. A hand around his wrist. Then he finds ocean-deep eyes staring into his own. 

“Cippenhamm is ours!” Guthrum roars somewhere above him. Eivor almost keels over, the strain of battle having been the only thing holding him up. Now he has been cut free, and he has nothing left to stand on. It’s Vili who holds him steady, Eivor fumbling uselessly as he grabs whatever he can reach of Vili’s cloak and armour, feeling as though he might sink right through to the depths of Hel if he doesn’t hold on. 

“Tend to the wounded, and gather in the square!” Guthrum’s order follows his declaration of victory, but it all sounds so hollow. If Eivor listens closely, he can hear the cracks in the call where a cold wind blows, singing a sinister prelude to something Eivor cannot see coming, but he can feel it. Or is that just the sound of his stoneheart shattering? 

“Get me out.” Eivor mumbles. Vili’s hand tightens around his wrist. 

“What?” Vili asks, sounding uncertain. 

Eivor pulls away, almost wrenching himself out of Vili’s grip, but Vili doesn’t let him go. Eivor looks at him, vision swimming. “I need to get out.”

“Alright.” It’s such a simple response, softly spoken, firmly followed up by Vili walking at his side, the grip on Eivor’s wrist sliding down to his hand where he slips his fingers between Eivor’s and squeezes tight, like he has no intention of ever letting go. Hands hidden by the bulk of their armour and cloaks, Eivor hears Vili say something about bringing the wounded from the garrison, but the words are muffled and unclear even as close as they are, like he’s speaking through water. And when Eivor walks, each step is heavy, his bones ache, his heartbeat pounds like a war drum in his head, mouth dry and fuzzy. No part of him feels right, like there’s a sickness in him that won’t bleed out. 

He’s letting Vili take him wherever he deems it safe. Eivor can’t think coherently past keeping himself upright, and even then, it’s Vili doing most of the work. It feels like an age before Vili stops them by a grassy knoll, untouched by the fires and smoke, and he only lets go of Eivor to turn around - but the sudden clarity of being outside of the pyre lets the full brunt of emotion hit Eivor, and he screams with rage, turned away from Vili, stumbling, crashing to his knees. He isn’t grieving. He’s too hollow for grief. His tears are angry and bitter, and they run the taste of blood into his mouth as they wash the red from his face. 

Something about the way that scream is ripped out of him leaves Eivor feeling numb, as though he has cast his agony onto the pyre and now he’s empty. He’s shivering. The fires that had kept him going have been quenched by a hollow victory, and now he’s left adrift. He can feel the shape of rock and dirt and grass being pressed into his hands as his palms lie flat on the ground, holding him up while he’s on his knees, but it doesn’t hurt. He can feel the brush of wind over his skin, but it feels neither cool nor hot, simply a breath that ghosts his face. 

What he does feel properly though, a moment later, are strong arms around his shoulders, and they are _warm._ He inhales deeply, face coming to rest in soft, dark furs. The smell of woodsmoke clings to fur, beneath the sweat and iron and remnants of battle that linger. His shaking subsides slowly, and he lets his arms go slack, trusting Vili to hold him up. He does just that, pulling Eivor gently into him and Eivor feels impossibly heavy as he shifts, moving so that he’s sitting down, legs pulled to his chest as though he could curl up and disappear in Vili’s furs. 

Eventually, Eivor finds his voice somewhere in the ruins. “I… I’m sorry.” 

Arms tighten around him, and Eivor can see how Vili’s fists are curled into his tunic, knuckles white. 

“Do not be.” Vili murmurs above him. 

Why wouldn’t he be? Eivor thinks. He is supposed to be leading the Raven Clan into glory and prosperity, not blindly following a prize he knows he cannot take. And he has risked and lost _lives_ now. Lives that will go nowhere.

“Eivor…” Vili hesitates, a thought clearly plaguing him. Eivor swallows, wiping his eyes quickly before he sits up and turns to face him properly. Vili stares back at him, eyes wide, arms loosening around Eivor to let him turn, but then they tense again upon seeing his face, like Vili thinks he can hold Eivor together with sheer stubbornness. 

If anyone could, Eivor thinks it would be him. 

He nudges Vili gently, urging him to continue.

“Is this just battle-rage speaking?” Vili asks quietly, but his gaze tells Eivor that he already knows his answer. Eivor shakes his head, and his eyes drop down, unable to look him in the face. Vili brings one arm away only to grab Eivor’s chin gently, pulling him back to look at him. “Will you tell me what it is? I want to help you.”

Eivor doesn’t know how he can say it. There is too much, and it is too complicated and tangled for a conversation they must have quickly, before somebody comes to find them. His jaw tenses underneath Vili’s hand, and Vili notices, frowning. His hand moves to Eivor’s cheek instead, and Eivor finds it increasingly difficult to ignore the way it feels. Gentle. Kind. A touch to coax his heart back to life with something sweeter than grief. 

Vili is asking, because he wants to know. To help. Eivor thinks of Gunnar’s words, of sharing a burden with another before it drowns Eivor completely. He thinks of Sigurd’s constant pushing, knowing Vili means more to Eivor than he lets on. He thinks idly of fate, of how it is woven with unrelenting hands, by spinners that he has seen with his own eyes, or Havi’s, though he cannot tell the difference anymore. If there is one, it has become insignificant. 

“It is a lot, Vili.” Eivor breathes out, but it’s the first pebble slipping free from a mighty mountain that seems to be sitting on his chest. 

“I am not afraid of much, Eivor.” Vili reminds him with a lopsided smile, “I defeated a whole _tree,_ once. Remember?” 

Eivor snorts, laughing weakly. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, still feeling torn at the edges. Dragging a hand down his face, he takes away some of the blood and dirt and tears that won’t leave, wiping it on his leg as he sniffs, feeling a little stupid, a little scared, and more than a little overwhelmed at the words he’s considering.

But he looks at Vili then, and all these thoughts seem to grow quiet. 

“It has been on my mind ever since Norway,” Eivor begins, “I saw Valhalla.” 

Vili’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Or some sort of… reflection of it. I am not sure.” Eivor shakes his head, brow growing heavy as he thinks too long on the intricacies of the Life Tree, that towering shape of stone and light that was completely alien to him, but it sang in a way that made it feel achingly familiar. “I have been meaning to speak with you about all of this, Vili, but it is just… it’s so much.”

“Then tell me what hurts most. Maybe I can fix that.” Vili presses, leaning in closer to rest his head against Eivor’s. If there was any pretense of keeping his distance until they’d spoken properly, he’s thrown that idea to the winds. Eivor smiles to himself for a moment, but it is a fleeting moment, quickly overtaken by the shadows of doubt. 

“Things transpired there in that strange world. Sigurd called it Valhalla, and… in some ways, it was. It was beautiful. Golden. Every day, an endless feast was laid before us, and every day a great horn would resound, the gates would open, and the golden fields would be filled with battle-din. Your wounds would heal, and if you were slain, you rose again anew the next day.”

“Every day? You were in there for _days?”_ Vili frowns. “We were only in that boat for a few hours.”

“It was at least a week, but it was hard to keep count - the days all just… bled into each other, by the end. It all felt so empty, devoid of joy, of love, of life. You woke up to fight, and die, and fight again the next day. Everything became meaningless without a reason to fight and bleed.”

Eivor pauses, uncertain of whether to mention Vili’s presence there. It was strange. It was the first sign of many that this Valhalla was an illusion. But he is already testing Vili’s faith by telling him all this, and Eivor wonders if that will be too far.

“It was everything like the stories we grew up with, Vili, and yet, nothing like them at all. I… I did not know what to believe when I returned. I still do not know.” Eivor’s voice falters, the gravity of his loss suddenly felt keenly in his chest. He can feel the sting in his eyes again, but he refuses to shed any more tears over this. No more tears, no more blood, no more. He brings his hand roughly to his face, thumb and fingers pressing into closed eyes to stop the tears where they form.

“England has cost us so much. It will cost us more before the day is out.” Eivor mumbles brokenly even as he feels Vili’s hand wrap around his wrist, gently trying to pry his hand away from his face, “And I must send my friends to an ending I am not sure I believe in, and I feel as though I am depriving them of their glory in death. Glory that they deserve.” 

He falls silent after that admission. Vili’s fingers pry his own away from his face at last, with a gentleness Eivor didn’t know he possessed. It makes his aching heart stutter back to some semblance of life. 

“Would you just be _selfish_ for once, raven-brains?” Vili says bluntly, and it hits Eivor like a hammer to the face. He looks up, a response already brewing out of old habit, but Vili just looks at him, expectantly. Waiting for something. Eivor tilts his head in silent question.

“Your stupid heart is too big,” Vili pokes him in the chest, “Too full of worries about other people. Too heavy. Your friends will find their way to their rightful end, because they still believe in it. Tell me something?”

Eivor nods, slowly, unsure of where Vili is going. But, as ever, he finds himself pulled along for the journey.

“If I fell today, where would you have sent me? Would you see me in Valhalla?”

“I won’t think of that.” Eivor snaps, shoving Vili, trying to get up. Vili holds him there almost effortlessly, not budging. 

“But one day you will have to, my Eivor, and one day, you will have to decide.”

Eivor stares defiantly up at him, eyes burning at the mere thought of sending Vili somewhere he couldn’t follow. Vili’s own gaze is bright with something Eivor can’t place, but it sends a warmth blooming through his chest again, soothing the brutal marks left by his outpouring of emotion. 

Vili’s hand fists tightly in Eivor’s bloodied furs. He gives him the slightest nudge. “Where will your heart take you when you are done here?” 

Where will his heart take him? Eivor almost laughs, but it would be a whimper from a wounded wolf if he tries. Has it not taken him to Vili, over and over? In Norway, in England, even in Valhalla where he was nothing but a reflection. 

“With you.” 

Vili doesn’t seem surprised in the least. Eivor could roll him down this hill for looking so smug, but that would be admitting something more than he already has. Vili’s lips lift into a smile, quietly victorious - a rare thing, his silence - and Eivor feels himself smiling back. 

“Then you will find Valhalla too, won’t you?”

Ugh. Eivor shoves him, his hands buried in Vili’s furs, but they don’t let go. How does Vili do this? Even as children Eivor would find himself burdened by fears he had no idea how to untangle, and for all Sigurd’s bluntness would try to hack away at them, it was always Vili who had the patience to sit with Eivor and untangle them properly. But he would do it with well placed questions and light-hearted words, things that left Eivor smiling at the end of it. 

“Fuck you, arse-stick.” Eivor’s words are lacking his usual bite. He’s only given a moment to brood before Vili’s arms are wrapped tight around him again, pulling him in. Eivor rests his cheek against Vili’s chest, letting his eyes close as he focuses on the steady heartbeat he feels there, unwavering, strong enough for both of them while Eivor lets his own recover.

“I am not going to Valhalla without my best chicken _draugr_ ,” Vili laughs, the sound rumbling through Eivor, sending that warmth to the very edges of his bones and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t feel as though he might shatter under a hammer blow, “There is no way.”

Eivor allows himself to stay there for a while longer than he thinks he should. Once his face is dry of tears and his eyes stop stinging, he pats Vili’s side. “Come on. I will have to show my face.” 

“Don’t worry, Eivor, you still look like a troll, they won’t notice a difference.” Vili tells him as Eivor pulls out of his arms and gets to his feet, using Vili’s shoulder as leverage. He gives Vili a wolfish grin just before he shoves the man backwards with force, leaving him lying on his back in the grass.

“Eat shit, dragon-brains.” 

It is far easier walking back to Cippenhamm with that weight lifted from his shoulders, Eivor finds. And when the weight of the wounded and the dead is thrust upon him as soon as he steps in and finds them laid out in the square, Eivor is at least certain that he won’t crumble underneath it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh guys we're almost there i promise
> 
> currently with the way it's looking, the "official" fic wraps up with ch15, BUT, i do plan on filling out some requests and adding some snippets of various scenes in a more episodic format following the main story, so i'm sure there's still plenty more left to go. i will definitely be taking requests for eivor/vili (which you will be able to do on my tumblr: gwynbleiddyn - just drop me an ask! can't promise i'll do all but i will certainly try) and we'll see how it progresses!! thank you all so much for sticking with me this far <3

They gather beneath a red sunrise, having built the funeral pyres through the night. It had been quiet, methodical work, occasionally broken by a muffled sob or a hiccup where grief found a way to slip out from the shield wall of sturdy hearts. Glances were shared as the pyres were stacked higher and higher, each of them carrying heavy thoughts as well as the dead, and now they greet dawn with fewer friends and more scars than yesterday. 

Eivor stands alone for now, having brought Broder to his final place of rest, folding his arms over his axe, and wishing him well on his journey. Soma had helped Ljufvina with the crushing weight of Hjorr, frail in body but heavy upon Ljufvina’s heart, which Eivor worries will shatter by the day’s rising. Vili had carried Hunwald up, and Eivor could hardly look; Hunwald seemed impossibly small and frail in death when he had been stubbornly bright in life, and Vili made him seem even tinier - a child. But all three lie on their pyres now, in peace.

A soft wind blows, as though the world is mourning quietly in its own way, whispering words of comfort to the weary. It ghosts over Eivor’s shoulders, sweeping strands of dirty, blood-messed hair out of his face, cool and refreshing over cuts and bruises that are starting to sting now that the last dregs of battle-hugr are drifting away. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, inviting the new day to greet him with a kinder fate. He is willing to believe today. Vili’s words sit in his mind, a comforting presence that wards away the stubborn shadows of doubt that have clung to Eivor’s thoughts for too long now. 

When he opens his eyes again, the sun sits just on the horizon line - morning comes slowly at the cusp of winter, and stubbornly too. Frost has laid claim to the ground in the waning hours of their work, rendering it hard and uncomfortable underfoot. Breath fogs around muted words shared between exhausted drengir. The night had been too long, and the sunrise brings a pleasant melancholy to the rise they find themselves upon, set away from Cippenhamm’s ruin. The sun’s red light floods the fields of gold and green, turning them rich and vibrant enough to disguise the charred edges and the blood that stains the ground beneath the grain stalks and grasses. Frost slowly begins to recede. Eivor feels the barest hint of warmth as the sun hits his face, ensuring him that a warmer path lies ahead. 

He smiles. It’s a twisted little thing, and it aches to do so, but it is there. 

Footsteps crunch over the frosted grass behind him, and Eivor turns his ear to the sound. Slow and heavy, not fast enough to be Sigurd, the strides too short to be Vili, too regular to be Ivarr. Guthrum, then. 

“It is time, Eivor,” Guthrum says quietly, and Eivor can hear the exhaustion wearing his voice thin, “Time to send our friends to their great reward. Will you do the honours?” 

Eivor nods, turning to Guthrum. He assesses him quickly, noting the wear and tear of battle illuminated by light from the flickering flame of a torch, held aloft in one hand. Not injured, but tired - his shoulders are slumped, head bowed by the weight of their losses. Eivor finds Guthrum staring off into nothing when he looks up. Frowning, Eivor takes a step closer.

“Guthrum?”

Guthrum blinks, as if suddenly returned from a dream. He looks at Eivor, brow furrowing for a second. He seems to be debating something. A question.

“I saw the Reeve's body in the church.” Guthrum murmurs. Eivor knows he left Goodwin in pieces, head thrown upon the altar of their Christ. A brutal, ugly death for a man who seemed so utterly content with leaving this world. A potent mix of jealousy and unbridled rage did most of the work for Eivor after that. Eivor lifts his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. Had Guthrum come to contest his choice, to question his actions? Eivor folds his arms defensively, waiting.

“When he… died,” Guthrum fixes his pale stare on Eivor, “Did he take comfort in knowing he would soon see his god?”

Oh. Eivor’s stance relaxes, though his arms remain across his chest. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he thinks of Goodwin’s last moments, or tries to - most of it is a blur, rage had overtaken rational thought long before Goodwin had finished talking, and Eivor remembers only snippets stolen in moments of clarity in between waves of bloodlust. 

But he had been… quiet. Staring up at Eivor as he’d lined his axe up to his throat, no defiance, no begging for mercy, no nothing. He was empty, or simply… unbothered.

“He was strangely peaceful in his last moments, as if death meant nothing.” Eivor answers. Guthrum lets out a groan, a regretful sound, as he brings his free hand to his forehead, the picture of remorse. Eivor worries where his thoughts are taking him.

“We stumble through our years, ravenous, grasping. Spilling blood, stealing gold, and it is never enough.” Guthrum says, words heavy. But Eivor knows they ring true. 

“This  _ life  _ is never enough.” Eivor echoes the thought, and Guthrum looks up at him again, almost surprised. He nods, uncertain, hand falling back to his side slowly. Perhaps he had been expecting a stubborn rebuttal from a younger Norseman, ready to pull him firmly back into the fray of their blood-soaked lives. Eivor has felt this uncertainty lingering for some time now, a growing current hidden beneath turbulent waters - sooner or later, it will create a dangerous riptide that will sever the backbone of their people. He knows it. He only hopes they will be able to survive it when it happens.

“Would it not soothe you to know there is something beyond all this?” Guthrum asks, “Not war and valour, but quiet and peace.”

Eivor watches the flame of the torch for a moment, the way its light endures and changes with every sigh of the breeze. How strange that this might echo his fears, hours after he’s put them to rest. Fate led him to Vili to do so, and fate brings him now to Guthrum so that he might understand them. 

“I think…” Eivor tries to get his words in order. Such a vast topic refuses to surrender to the simplicity of words, but it is necessary. “I think the afterlife men hope for is only a reflection of their regret in this life.”

He looks up at Guthrum, who watches him still, expectantly. Eivor continues. “All I wish for now is to live among the friends I have made and the people that I love. If Valhalla awaits me, it will be because I follow them there.”

Guthrum nods, more certain this time. Eivor sees a flicker of light behind those old eyes, a glimmer of understanding.

Shrugging, Eivor steps forward once again, as if to drive his point home by proximity alone. “And I think… I think we are reflections of the people who shape us - our fathers, our jarls, our brothers, but if they can change, so can we. It is not a bad thing to be made anew.” 

“You grow wiser every hour, Raven-master,” Guthrum’s laugh is weary, but he looks grateful as he reaches out a hand to clap Eivor’s shoulder, “A boon of Odin himself. Come, let us send our friends to their final glory, we have dwelt here long enough.” 

It’s a short walk to the pyres, but each stride feels slower and longer than the last, like walking from shallow waters into the deep. Silence comes to the lonely rise, a nameless hill in the heartland of Wessex, where the graves of their kin now outnumber the ones who live there in peace. Eivor can’t help but wonder if this will always be so. 

He feels the heat of flames growing closer. It pulls him from his thoughts, gaze sliding sideways to where Vili is approaching, holding two flaming torches ready for the pyres. He offers one to Eivor without a word, even as Eivor meets his gaze - he’s tired, Eivor can see the struggle of fatigue in the way his gaze drifts where it usually holds steady. He takes the torch from Vili with both hands closing over Vili’s own, squeezing lightly, then turns away to pay attention to Guthrum’s words beginning to cut through the silence.

Soon, fires are raging once more, flames licking higher and higher against the slowly brightening sky. Guthrum speaks his final farewells, and Eivor offers his own, somewhere in the blur of existence he finds himself in. His only grounding is the presence of Vili at his side, and Sigurd too, not long after. As they carried him from that empty Valhalla, he knows they will carry him to shallow waters if he begins to struggle where he is - for now, though, his head is above the water line, and he is strong enough to match the tide. 

Slowly, they start to meander away from the pyres, now roaring in the morning sun; a violent show of a final rage before they grow forever quiet, entombed and set free all at once. 

Eivor catches sight of a lonely, familiar figure standing where he had been when Guthrum found him, overlooking the rolling expanse of Hamtunscire under a more pleasant light. 

“Ivarr.” Eivor calls to him. The man doesn’t turn, barely showing any sign of acknowledgement save for lifting his head slightly. Eivor walks over, intent on finding out where Ivarr’s path takes him now - to Ubba, or elsewhere? 

“They make good pyres. Good beacons to light the way for the valkyries.” Ivarr murmurs, still caked in blood and gore from the battle. Eivor looks him once over, knowing that Ivarr’s watching, and then turns away to face the dawn-lit hills and fields before them. He’s too tired to be irritated by Ivarr’s careless words today. Ivarr shifts his weight, tugging uncomfortably at his armour. “Would have been nice to join them. I hear it’s quite the ride to Valhalla.” 

Eivor huffs. “You still wish to die, Ivarr?” 

Ivarr falls silent, but Eivor can practically hear the grinding of teeth, the way he’s chewing over words like a dog with a bone. 

“You know, you were right.”

That gets Eivor’s attention. He looks back at him, arms folding tight across his chest as though that would protect him from Ivarr’s unpredictable mind. “About what?”

“That he needed me.” Ivarr twitches slightly, as if the mere thought of Ubba has left him with an axe embedded in his spine, and now it catches on almost everything. 

“You were there.” Eivor reminds him. 

“Yeah,” Ivarr snorts, “And if I hadn’t been, it’s him I’d be sending to Valhalla, not him meeting me there. Like it should be.” 

Eivor lets that statement hang there between them like a chain. If these are the shackles Ivarr wishes to bind his own wrists with, Eivor will not stop him. It isn’t his place, and it isn’t his responsibility either. He’s had enough of solving problems that should rest in the hands of others. He’s had enough of choices, of consequences. Every stone he has cast has sent ripples through his life and now into others too, well out of his reach. He decided Ivarr’s fate that day on the mountain. He would not do it again.

A glint of metal catches Eivor’s eye. Ivarr rolls a silver ring around his palm, looking down at it now. Ubba’s ring. 

“I said often that I would follow Sigurd into Valhalla, that being here without him would be meaningless. Who do I follow, if not my brother? My jarl? ” Eivor admits, “That has changed now, it was… written in a way we did not expect.”

Ivarr remains silent, but he’s stopped fiddling with the ring. He’s listening.

“Things unfolded in a way that I am not sure I would wish on any other, but at the end of it, Sigurd told me something. He said that we cannot unweave our fates, no matter how much we wish it. To be angry at that is useless. To fight it is like… wrestling the ocean, as he put it. Pointless.”

Eivor turns to Ivarr then, hands falling to his sides. Ivarr cocks his head, jaw clenched as he considers the ring in his hand. 

“Never much liked Ireland, anyway.” Ivarr growls after a moment, but there’s no bite in his words anymore. It’s a quiet sort of resignation that speaks now. 

Smirking slightly, Eivor shrugs when Ivarr glances up at him at last with intense scrutiny, like he’s searching for what Eivor isn’t saying. As though the very idea of someone speaking the full truth to him is simply not a given, even when Eivor continues to do so. 

“There is one thing I was wrong about,” Ivarr says then, and Eivor lifts a brow, silently asking the question, “When I first met you in Repton, I did not think you were such a  _ talker.” _

Eivor smiles. Ivarr looks away only to slip the ring onto his gnarled finger, then looks back at Eivor, a twisted line shaping his mouth into something almost like a grin. 

“Do you sail with us to Ravensthorpe?” Eivor asks. 

Ivarr nods, turning away from the sunrise. “Somebody has to pick up that useless sack of lard before he turns as soft as the rest of you.” 

Snorting, Eivor turns away too, and begins to lead the way back to Cippenhamm. 

* * *

Vili wanders the square of Cippenhamm, watching soldiers begin to stake their claim on this hovel. They’re beaten, broken, and desperate for rest after a long night with no relief from the brutality of their conquest. Guthrum still marches like a hungry beast, not satisfied with his kill - Aelfred is lost to them, and now they linger in the hollow gouged out by an empty victory. The dead were not his to send off, but even so, Vili felt Eivor’s sorrow as keenly as he might feel his own. It hasn’t left him. 

Neither has that scream of utter rage that fell from Eivor’s mouth hours ago. Vili keeps hearing it. Every time, it stings him just as badly as it did when he heard it first. He wants to press his hands to his ears and drown it out, and his fingers twitch as the urge finds him yet again, left alone with his thoughts.

Hearing Eivor’s grief tumbling from his lips had felt a little like drowning, and Vili can’t help but think it was only a weak reflection of the tide Eivor has been swimming against, alone, unknown to anyone. The thought makes his jaw clench, teeth grinding, a quiet and simmering anger growing deep in his chest with nowhere to go. There is nobody to be angry at. There is no enemy to strike down that would make him or Eivor feel better. There is nothing he can offer, only time and patience and arms that would hold Eivor as long as he needed them to, and then beyond that. 

Vili is just glad Eivor even let him. He couldn’t pretend it would make everything alright, or that it would stitch up the thousand cuts on Eivor’s bleeding heart from how much he cares about everyone who doesn’t matter, but to know that he had been a safe place for Eivor to land in a rare moment of bitter honesty was… good. It felt right. He can’t fix everything, but he can at least listen to Eivor when few others will. 

Right now, Vili just wants to get Eivor home. He’s tired, and grieving, and this is too much for shoulders that have had the hands of too many holding onto them. 

“Slow down, Vili, you will wear a ditch right through Cippenhamm.” Sigurd’s hand lands squarely on his chest, stopping Vili in his tracks. He glances down at the man and frowns. He hasn’t been doing this long, has he? Sigurd lifts a brow, hand dropping to his side as he steps around Vili and leans against a wooden fence behind him, casually surveying the square.

“I need to keep walking. I will fall asleep where I stand, otherwise.” Vili lies, scratching at his head as he half turns away from Sigurd to save face. He doesn’t believe for a second that it will work. He can feel Sigurd’s eyes back on him a moment later, and he sighs heavily, hands resting at his hips.

“Is it Eivor? He has not been… right.” Sigurd words it carefully, but Vili knows what he’s trying to say. He’s seen it himself. The frustration, the anger, the absolute battle-rage that had consumed him last night -- none of it is Eivor. It’s as though there is something beneath the skin, forcing its way out and leaving an ugly mess behind. 

Vili looks at Sigurd, not really knowing what to say. He shrugs, shaking his head. “I have not seen him like that before.”

“I saw you leave with him earlier. I thought he was injured, perhaps, but…” Sigurd narrows his eyes in silent question, leaving that sentence for Vili to finish. Vili lifts a hand to rub tiredly at his brow, forcing out a slow exhale.

“He just needs to be home, Sigurd. Away from this. Whatever happened in Norway…” Vili doesn’t even try to pretend his gaze doesn’t land accusingly on Sigurd, “It is a deep wound, and I do not mean the scar he has walked away with.” 

Sigurd doesn’t seem offended in the least by Vili’s accusation. There’s something remorseful in his shadowed eyes, lit up by the weak sun and lingering flames of torches lining Cippenhamm’s bloodstained paths. He must know what happened. If Vili looks close enough, remorse starts to look like recognition. 

Sigurd opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but whatever it is is lost as a pair of footsteps sound nearby. Sigurd’s gaze is pulled away from Vili to the sight of Eivor and Ivarr walking side by side, and without a blade in sight. Vili forgets the conversation almost immediately, feet taking him towards Eivor without thinking, but he stops just short, remembering himself and present company. His gaze slides to Ivarr, who only looks at him, amused, before stalking off and leaving him alone with Eivor. It takes everything for Vili to resist reaching out and holding onto Eivor, as though he’s afraid he might disappear if he doesn’t. 

“It’s done. Just… a few goodbyes to say, and then we can go home.” Eivor sounds exhausted. Vili nods, and manages a smile just for Eivor. His heart grows a little lighter when he sees Eivor return one of his own, and Vili steps aside to let Eivor carry on. 

“Sigurd, I think we are all ready to leave this place.” Eivor calls to his brother. Sigurd nods in acknowledgement, a slow and thin smile returning to his face. 

“Guthrum waits in the church. Vili and I will make sure everything is ready to depart, hm?” Sigurd directs the question Vili’s way, and Vili just glances quickly between him and Eivor, reluctant to leave Eivor, but at the same time, all too eager to get Eivor out of here.

What a strange place to be. Vili huffs, almost laughing at himself. “Right.  _ More  _ crates.”

“Well, you have the obvious advantage.” Sigurd’s smile turns wolfish as he nods to Vili’s arms, then pushes off the fence and turns away, heading to the shoreline camp. 

* * *

They take their time returning to Ravensthorpe. Between two heavier ships after sending one home with Ubba, and two exhausted crews, it’s a journey fraught with tension. Rowing is kept to a minimum, and it seems the gods are willing to look kindly upon their conquests as a strong breeze keeps the sails full downriver for much of the journey. The boats are rammed full, everyone either squashed together or lying almost on top of each other, but all are equally too tired to care. 

By the time the longships reach Ravensthorpe two days later, a quiet song hums over the river, woven by weary voices. It is hopeful, in a strange and tired way. 

Bit by bit, they unload the ships of the remaining supplies before the crew find their way to the barracks, feet heavy on the dock. Ravensthorpe is quiet in slumber, only a few torches remain lit through the night to line the pathways, which lie still and empty in the hush of Nótt’s embrace, and Eivor is almost reluctant to disturb it.

But Ivarr will want to see Ubba, and Eivor doubts Ivarr spent his time in Ravensthorpe making friends. Whether Ubba lives or not, he will be in Valka’s care, either for healing, or being prepared for yet another funeral pyre. Eivor hopes that won’t be the case. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Vili looking a little lost - the same way he did when he first arrived. Seeing Sigurd and Ivarr approaching, Eivor quickly wracks his brain for an idea. He pulls Gungnir from where it sits at his back, along with his bow.

“Vili,” Eivor calls, stepping towards him, “I will take Ivarr to Valka’s hut. Would you bring these to my room?” 

Vili looks taken aback for the briefest moment, and Eivor does not miss the way his gaze lifts past him to where Sigurd and Ivarr must be. He looks back at Eivor, nodding, trying and failing to hide a curious smile. Eivor just looks at him, heart thudding away in its cage now that he’s one step closer to letting it free. 

“And wait there.” Eivor adds in a whisper, and he sees Vili’s knuckles turn white as they close around the bow and spear. He turns away, gesturing for Ivarr to follow him. He especially doesn’t miss the sly grin Sigurd has on his face, and he deigns to ignore it entirely, lest he end up arguing semantics in front of Ivarr, of all people.

But Sigurd has no such qualms.

“I can take those, Eivor. I do plan on sleeping in the longhouse tonight, after all--”

“Vili will take them.” Eivor interrupts, walking past him.

Sigurd laughs. “You are a hard taskmaster, brother - Vili must be tired, and the barracks are right _ here.” _

“I, ah, I was going to walk up anyway, Sigurd, find some leftover stew and bread. Dried fish rations are not a meal I want to go to sleep on.” Vili’s attempt isn’t half-hearted, Eivor will grant him that. He smiles to himself as he reaches Ivarr, who looks both amused and disgusted by the show. 

“Then I will keep you company,” Sigurd refuses to give in, and Eivor half considers lobbing his handaxe at him, “Seeing as my brother is so eager to leave his men go hungry.” 

“Oh, I--” Vili almost coughs, “I don’t plan on going hungry.” 

Remarkably, Sigurd is silent after that. Eivor barks out a laugh, and leaves them behind as he leads Ivarr to Valka’s hut.

The walk is short and quiet, thankfully. He can see candlelight filling up the interior of Valka’s hut, the rush of the nearby waterfall growing louder as they approach. Rowan’s stables lie quiet save for the occasional snort and scuffing of hooves, and the quiet whinny of Eivor’s favoured grey mare alerts him to her presence, near the edge of the pen. “Shh.” Eivor chuckles, rubbing her nose as he passes. He hears Ivarr huff from beside him, and Eivor turns his thoughts back down more sombre paths.

“He will be in there, regardless of…” Eivor trails off. Ivarr shoots him a sidelong glance, giving him a jerky nod. Eivor takes that as enough of a sign that they should go in, and he swallows down his fear as he takes one step through the open door of Valka’s hut. 

The smell of incense hits him first, but then the honey-sweet undertones mixed with crushed garlic bring Eivor’s attention to the corner of the hut, where Eivor had found himself waking after his many visits here. The bedroll is occupied once more, but with a living, breathing body, and not a corpse. Eivor feels a little lighter, a relieved sigh slipping out as he sees Ubba lying there, chest bared and partially wrapped with clean bandage. But there’s a shape next to him, a person, Eivor realizes. Blinking, his eyes adjust to the darkness, wondering if it might be Valka, but there’s a glimpse of red hair and fox fur, and Eivor’s mouth falls open.

“Randvi?” 

She looks up, eyes wide, cheeks darkening even in the shadows. There’s a sudden stillness to her, and Eivor understands why as he follows the shadow of her arm down to her hand, lying tangled with Ubba’s where it rests on his chest. 

Oh.

A thousand questions spring forth, but Eivor pushes them aside for now, refocusing on Ubba, who’s turned his head to see what has Randvi’s attention. He takes a moment to recognize them, but his smile is genuine once he does. 

“Eivor, Ivarr,” Randvi gets to her feet, clearing her throat as she sweeps her hair out of her face, “I-- welcome back, let me fetch Valka, she can-- um,” she gestures towards Ubba, “She can tell you more than I, how your brother fares. She went to pick some herbs in the spring--” 

“I will go with you. Leave Ivarr to it.” Eivor says, shooting Ivarr a glance. The man is frozen solid, rooted to the spot. Eivor has a feeling he’s biding his time. He juts his chin towards the door as he catches Randvi’s eye, and leads her out. 

Once they step out into the cool night air again, Eivor can practically feel Randvi’s face burning next to him. He tries not to smile, looking away and up at the treetops and the night sky, but then he hears Randvi sigh. 

“Before you ask…”

“I wasn’t going to.” Eivor argues lamely, biting his lip to stop from grinning, still not looking at Randvi. He can feel her gaze boring into the side of his head.

“Mention this to anyone, and I will shut Winfrith’s sheep in your room.” 

Eivor finally looks at her, mock offense written all over his face. “That’s no way to speak to your jarl--”

“Don’t give me that shit, Eivor.” Randvi’s words slip into an uncharacteristic laugh, and she claps a hand over her mouth, surprised at herself. Eivor laughs too, quiet, but all too happy to see his friend look brighter than she has done in months. 

“Ubba?” Eivor presses the unspoken question, brow lifting. Randvi’s blush is barely visible between the moonlight and the scant illumination offered by the torches, but it’s there. 

“It’s not… we have spoken. I enjoy his company, but I do not… expect…” She trails off, shaking her head. Eivor stops them where they are, at the edge of the pool beside Valka’s hut with the moonlight bouncing off the water. 

“I am not trying to pry.” Eivor tells her gently, still smiling. Randvi clears her throat, nodding, shaking her hands out like she’s preparing herself for something. Everything about her seems restless. Giddy, almost. 

“Thank you, Eivor, I just…” Randvi shrugs, “It is nothing, right now.”

“But it might be?” Eivor can’t help but wonder. Randvi’s smile returns, and she only offers a shrug in response. 

Eivor chuckles quietly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright. No more prying.” 

Randvi lets out a relieved sigh, gaze drifting from Eivor to the pond. She’s lost in thought for a moment, and Eivor can see her expression grow serious in the reflection of the water. 

“I… I am glad you are back, Eivor. All of you.” She says, quiet and sincere, “I feared the worst when Ubba arrived.”

Eivor lifts a hand to rub at his aching neck, shoulders straining under the weight of his armour. “Me too, Randvi. It was… it was not good. None of it. It was as though glory had abandoned us at every turn, and we were left to wallow in the blood. Betrayal and poison quickly sours the sweetness of battle.” 

“Ubba spoke of overwhelming odds,” Randvi murmurs, “And from a Ragnarsson… that is a heavy thing to say.” 

Eivor lets his hand fall. He stares at his own reflection in the water. A bruise has painted the right side of his temple, purple and yellow blending painfully together. His brow has a jagged looking cut from a wayward shield, and there’s a matching mark on his left cheek. Small fragments of a bigger, even uglier whole - Eivor can feel his entire body is hurting, somehow, someway, and he is not the only one who feels this way. 

“I do not think any of us will be going anywhere for some time. This has… taken something out of us.” Eivor admits quietly, brow furrowed. It feels wrong to say those words, but they can’t keep pushing on and breaking themselves against the bulwark of Wessex - there will be nothing left if they do. 

“Are we safe?” Randvi asks.  _ Have you led them to our doorstep, _ she means. Eivor looks at her, nodding. Aelfred is weakened, although Wessex remains standing. They would not follow, lest they risk the head finally being cut from the snake. Of that, he is certain.

“Wessex cannot take Mercia, East Anglia, and Northumbria. Our allies stretch far and wide, and they are strong. We will be safe for some time, I should think.”

Randvi’s relief is clear in her softening gaze, the slightest of smiles threatening at her lips. Eivor can at least be at peace with that, he thinks. It is more than they ever had in Fornburg. Security. Safety. A promise of a few years without worrying of raids and ruin. 

“I want to enjoy my home.” Eivor says then, a tired smile finding its way to his face as he looks around them, to the rush of the waterfall, the hint of colour of flowers in the gloom, the longhouse waiting behind him with a roaring hearth. He lingers on the longhouse for a moment, wondering if Vili is waiting within. He hopes so. Looking back at Randvi, he continues. “I wish to live now among friends, and the people I love.” 

Randvi’s brow lifts, a glimmer of curiosity alighting in her eyes. “Oh? Including… perhaps our newest ally?” 

Of course. He should have expected this. 

“You too? Really?” Eivor half-laughs, “Has Sigurd been dripping words into your ear?”

Randvi beams back at him. “He does like to talk, but… even if he hadn’t, Eivor, it’s not hard to see what Vili means to you.” 

Eivor doesn’t know what to say to that. Denial is pointless, he knows it is obvious. And what shame is there to be had in it? None at all. He knows that. He knows his clan knows that. Perhaps it is just the realization beginning to sink in at last, that he is free to follow what he wants now. Who he wants. There’s no duty to another to uphold, no looming journeys of discovery to undertake, no questions of life and death to be answered -- he is free. 

Randvi takes a step closer to him, reaching out to squeeze his arm, reassuring as she seeks out his gaze. “I think, after all you’ve done for us, Eivor, you should let a little kindness into your life. You have brought so much into ours. Go, find him. I will find Valka and bring her to Ivarr --  _ go.”  _

She gives him a gentle shove and Eivor stumbles back, laughing breathlessly at her insistence, but his words are caught in his throat as he finds himself walking away even after he rights himself, like the momentum is carrying him where he wants to go. He can hear Randvi’s laughter behind him, growing quieter the further away he gets until there’s nothing but the muted crackling of torch flames and his own footsteps, growing quicker and quicker until he’s almost running to the longhouse. He’s aching, and tired, and he doesn’t want to think about tomorrow at all, but tonight at least promises something - Eivor can’t say what it is yet, he needs to hear that from Vili’s own mouth, not from the thoughts he can’t keep at bay. 

But for the first time in a long while, he has a good feeling about tomorrow.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grab your popcorn friends

The fires are burning low, casting a soft light across the hall with only two shadows for company. Vili pokes the dredges of his stew around the wooden bowl in front of him, listening idly to Sigurd’s rambling opposite him. Even when they were younger, surely, Sigurd never spoke this much? Or perhaps Vili is noticing too much tonight, overly aware of every movement and sound as the anticipation sinks in slowly, turning his skin to tingles and making his mouth feel like feathers. He smacks his lips together, the sensation strange and strangling, and reaches for his cup of mead to see if that will help. 

“You are paler than our winter snows, Vili.” Sigurd points out, scraping his own bowl clean. Vili gulps down his mead, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he fixes Sigurd with a level stare.

“Tired.” He states bluntly, but Sigurd’s mouth quirks and he pushes his empty bowl away, resting his arm on the table in front of him. 

“Do you remember back in Norway, years ago,” Sigurd shifts easily into another story, and Vili can’t help but steal a glance to the western doorway where he hopes to see Eivor and finds nothing, “Not long before you left for England, I think. We went hunting.” 

Vili recalls the trip with almost painful clarity. He’d known his path would take him from Eivor then, and the thought of telling him had him paralyzed with indecision. Hemming sent Vili to Fornburg, claiming he wanted him out from under his feet while he took care of things ready for their departure - Vili wonders if he knew otherwise, even then. He suspects so. A sad smile tugs at his mouth, and Vili finds himself staring down into his mead while Sigurd presses on, either oblivious, or unerringly stubborn. Or both, perhaps. Those two traits coincided often in this man, Vili has found. 

“The tales we’d heard of that elk! A bloody beast, not far west of Fornburg. Whose idea was it to try and hunt it down?” Sigurd’s brow furrows as he tries to think, but Vili just laughs.

“Yours, Sigurd.” Vili reminds him, relaxing a little in the company of old memories. “Most ideas were.”

Sigurd gives him a smug smile in response. “And yet you followed!” He gestures to Vili, and Vili nods, chuckling as he lifts his mug to his lips. The mead is sweet on his tongue, and lets his thoughts flow a little more freely from where they’ve frozen into place, moving like slow ice over an ocean. 

Setting his cup back down, Vili glances up at Sigurd. “You knew Eivor would follow you, and I would follow Eivor. It was not a challenge to convince us, so climb down from your high horse before you fall.” 

Sigurd laughs. Vili breathes a little easier. It’s so much easier to share words with him like this, when he isn’t bowing under the weight of a title or a greater destiny that seems to elude him at every turn. As much as Eivor has not been quite the same since Norway, neither has Sigurd, but where something seems as though it has shattered within Eivor, Sigurd seems to have been made stronger for it. Vili just hopes it was not one at the cost of the other. 

“We walked up the mountain, three fools to meet a legend, intent on besting it and bringing it home.”

Vili rolls his eyes. “We got about halfway up before the snows set in and we decided we’d come back the next day.”

“And we never did.” Sigurd leans in conspiratorially, voice dropping. Vili snorts, fighting back another laugh. He misses those days dearly, the freedom of Norway’s wild lands had suited them well. Sigurd’s expression turns sombre then, and he leans back, almost frowning as he regards Vili. “You left the day after.”

The hazy warmth of recollection is plucked from Vili’s body with that single line. His smile fades, gaze dropping to his hands now lying one over the other on the table. He remembers Eivor’s face as they’d said goodbye. He’s never seen something so cold and warm at the same time - his eyes shone, brighter than any aurora sky Vili had seen in Norway, but they lacked that warmth he’d come to expect from Eivor. His mouth had a smile carved into it, as though he’d taken an axe to ice. But he was golden in the sun, and beautiful, and warm hands had held him tightly as they’d embraced. It made leaving feel even colder. 

“Do you wish you’d stayed?” Sigurd asks quietly. 

It’s a difficult question, with too many answers. Vili can only meet him head-on. “Do you wish you’d followed sooner?”

Sigurd’s smile is tinged with a melancholy - silent mourning of the years lost. It is enough of an answer in itself.

“You looked as pale that day as you do now,” Sigurd says after a moment, “It made me wonder.”

Vili wonders too. 

“Did he miss me?” He feels silly asking, and the question slips out in a pathetic little voice that almost gets swallowed up in his mead. He’s half expecting Sigurd to laugh at him, but he’s oddly quiet, expression turning serious enough to make Vili’s stomach twist in knots all of a sudden.

“I heard him crying, one night, not long after you had gone.”   
  
The words are like a punch to the gut, and Vili isn’t sure he wants Sigurd to continue, but Sigurd does anyway.

“I heard him, and it was…” Sigurd shakes his head, “Quiet, but you could hear his grief. I do not pester you now out of the desire to be solely  _ irritating _ , Vili,” he looks at Vili properly then, holding them there with his gaze, “I do it because I love my brother. As much as I might share in his glory, I feel the bite of his grief too.”

Vili chews on his lip, words lost to the well of thought. In some ways it is a relief to hear that he was not the only one experiencing a kind of heartbreak he hadn’t been warned about. In other ways, it stings to know Eivor felt the same hurt, and there was nothing Vili could have done about it. 

But can he really apologise for something so out of his control? What son would not follow his father to greener shores if everything was promised to him? And especially for the sake of an almost. Because that’s all he and Eivor had ever been:  _ almost _ . They both enjoyed an easy life in the river of quiet impermanence, the promise of constantly moving wherever wandering hearts would take them. Even if Vili can recall with perfect clarity every time Eivor’s hand found his while they sat in the spring-thaw meadows, or every time they’d lingered too long in longhouse shadows, pressed close and whispering mead-sweet words, or even every time his lips found Eivor’s in one moment and they pretended it was nothing in the next -- it was all swept away with an  _ almost  _ before they ever strayed too far. 

He feels a strange pressure at his wrist, and Vili realizes Sigurd is poking him. He shakes his head, dispelling his thoughts as he clears his throat and sits upright, shoulders straight, looking at Sigurd again. Sigurd lifts his brow, bringing his arm back in. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Vili scratches at his bearded jaw, resting his cheek in his hand while he thinks. “Does it matter? It is done. It was done a long time ago. All I can do is fix it now.” 

Sigurd’s gaze slips past him then, and Vili feels a pair of strong hands on his shoulders. He glances sideways, seeing the blue ink of Eivor’s tattooed fingers digging into his pelt. Relief spills like sunlight through the cracks in Vili’s bones, chasing away the ice that had begun to set in -- a mix of regret and doubt, brought back to him by fleeting memory. 

“Are you done hounding Vili, brother?” Eivor asks from somewhere above him, and Vili’s gaze flits back to Sigurd, lips twitching into a smile as he reaches for his mead to drain the last few sips. Sigurd purses his lips momentarily, staring up at Eivor with a hint of defiance that quickly melts away into amusement, and he pushes himself up from the table, stepping out over the bench.

“He is all yours.” Sigurd gestures to Vili, beginning the walk to his own quarters beyond the vestibule, “Just remember some of us would like to sleep, so don’t be loud.”

Vili regrets taking a sip of his mead. He chokes on a sudden inhale, sputtering and coughing as Eivor just pats his back. He hears Eivor chuckling behind him, can almost feel his laughter at the back of his head - it’s a pleasant, comforting sound, one that almost makes Vili forget how hot his face suddenly feels. He sets the empty mug down, and feels Eivor pat his shoulders.

“Come on.” Eivor says, and his shoulders are suddenly light again. Vili looks behind him, seeing Eivor walking into his room, and his throat goes dry. He forces himself to move, heavy limb by heavy limb, and eventually he follows Eivor into the soft-lit room. It’s mere steps away from the hall, but it feels… different in here, somehow. Warmer. Cozy, with all the furs draped across chairs and the bed, rich coloured cloths tangled up along with them. Tapestries adorn the walls which are inlaid with strong, vivid carvings, lulling Vili into a comfortable familiarity. His body, tired and aching as it is, doesn’t seem to be fighting him to stay awake anymore - he’s safe here, and his eyes feel heavy, his breathing evening out from its stuttering patterns of uncertainty. It’s then that Vili notices there’s a subtle earthy smell, like a dry forest, and it reminds him of a very specific memory - Eivor’s room back in Fornburg. Vili’s eyes land on the source moments later: a wrapped bundle of dried herbs sits on a small shelf halfway up the wall above Eivor’s bed. For bad dreams, Eivor had said when he’d asked all those years ago.

“You still have your dreams?” Vili wonders aloud, taking a few more steps in. He hears Eivor fiddling with something to his left and turns to look, finding Eivor undoing his bracers by a table that’s laden with scraps of leather and cloth, an axe resting on top of it. 

Eivor glances at Vili over his shoulder, shrugging half-heartedly as he frees one arm, only looking up to answer, “They come and go.” And then he returns his attention to his armour.

Vili nods in acknowledgement, turning back to his quiet exploration. He leaves Eivor to his silent ritual as he ventures to the far side of the room where a locked chest sits on top of a long side table. Vili spies the mess of papers around it, signed with various names and seals, but he doesn’t read too far, feeling Eivor’s eyes on him a moment later. Vili hides a smile, unable to keep his curiosity quiet as he brushes past the papers nonchalantly, glancing up and away. There’s a collection of small knives hung up on the wall, some blunted, some broken, and some Vili recognizes from their old hunts. He wonders briefly if Eivor ever claimed that bloody elk after all, once he had gone. Vili moves on, not wanting to sour his own mood with his melancholy thoughts. He turns back to the room at large, gaze sweeping over the unexpectedly vast array of….  _ things _ . The room is full of strange little keepsakes, odds and ends that Eivor has picked up and kept like a raven brings its spoils to its nest. 

It is hard not to smile at the thought. It’s only when Vili hears a closing door that he realises Eivor is staring at him from the doors to his room which he leans against, the beautifully adorned wood firmly shut behind him. 

“Planning on keeping me prisoner, troll-face?” Vili’s smile widens into a grin, finding it easier to slip into old digs at Eivor now that he feels the world isn’t watching. Eivor huffs, pushing off the door to walk into his room, past Vili to the half of the room where his bed lies, covered in rich looking furs and soft pillows. 

“Couldn’t keep you anywhere if I tried, arse-stick,” Eivor responds through a yawn, and Vili realizes how tired he feels too, “You’ve got a skull thick enough to smash through most doors. We might not even need a battering ram for our next raid.”

Vili laughs, leaning against the wall that juts out slightly into the room, splitting it almost in two to lend a sense of privacy to the bedroom. The candlelight in here is brighter, or at least, there is more of it. That earthy smell is stronger here, but no less pleasant, and Vili can feel himself relaxing further, shaking off a few more lingering doubts as his hands unclench and his shoulders slacken. 

“So…” Vili attempts a foray into the unknown, suddenly cast adrift from his usual tides. He watches as Eivor unabashedly pulls his armour off, leaving him in just his boots and breeches, his back to Vili. He’s seen this before, this isn’t new -- spending enough time in close quarters leaves little to the imagination before long -- but this is suddenly so very different to everything Vili has known. And this time, he finds he isn’t afraid to look. One shared night of hasty hands and mumbled demands in Odin’s hovel didn’t leave Vili with much to remember, but now, he has much more time to appreciate what’s in front of him. Vili remembers Eivor as a ropey boy; plenty durable, but in the way that a bowstring might be until it is plucked the wrong way. Now, he is much stronger. Broader. It is hard to tear his eyes away from the expanse of sturdy shoulders and back muscles that catch the candlelight too well, drawing Vili’s eyes further down than he means to go. Eivor’s careful with his armour as he gathers it up and brings it to the table where he’d removed his bracers earlier, holding it close to his chest as he passes Vili. He’s detailed in ink now, Vili notices, a mark of endurance and honor. It rings his arms, deepening the contrast of skin and muscle, and Vili catches sight of how it disappears beneath his waistband as he slips past him.

_ Focus.  _ Vili tears his eyes away, having already forgotten almost every word he had waiting for Eivor, and he pinches at the bridge of his nose, silently berating himself. He pulls himself together in time to see Eivor pass by him again, and it is painfully obvious how neither of them are talking. Eivor leans across and grabs a clean tunic from his bed and pulls it on, turning to Vili with an expectant look. But Vili is lost in how such a simple show of trust leaves him drowning in what he can’t say. 

“Lost for words?” Eivor’s lips lift into a half smile. “Hold on, I have to mark the occasion.” 

Vili’s mouth opens and closes uselessly. Why is this so  _ difficult? _ Eivor watches him for a moment, smile fading as he realizes the struggle raging behind Vili’s eyes. He closes the distance between them, reaching out to tug at Vili’s cloak still clasped firmly around his shoulders.

“Shall I start?” Eivor asks gently, and Vili swallows, mouth dry as a bone. It’s a simple offer, a quiet reassurance, exactly what Vili needs. He nods, hands going up to try and take his cloak off like Eivor’s asking, but Eivor bats his hands away with a chuckle and continues his work, deft fingers taking care of the clasp. He’s left to stare at Eivor in this achingly close proximity, the way his golden lashes partially obscure his bright gaze while he works on untying the knot in Vili’s cloak, the sharp line of his nose ridged with a scar from Synin, the way his mouth curves in a smile as his words slip out like honey. 

“Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?”

Vili frowns, casting himself back through too many memories all at once. He remembers meeting Eivor, of course he does, but it is a hard thing to describe, that strange look in Eivor’s eyes when he’d first seen him. A bitter, raw anger bled from him as though it was something integral to his existence, but it was tempered with a stubborn hope that burned bright behind it. It spoke of immeasurable loss, and Vili felt it in his own soul - he’d lost too in a way that he couldn’t quite explain, but he felt as though he saw it in Eivor at long last, like an old friend finally returned to him. And where Vili stood tall and arrogant as a jarl’s son, Eivor was a wild little thing, scrawny, lurking in Sigurd’s shadow - or perhaps he simply  _ was  _ Sigurd’s shadow. Vili wasn’t much older than him at the time and even then he had towered over him, but Eivor seemed to dwarf him in experience and wisdom from the minute he opened his mouth. 

He was strange in every way Vili knew, but he had been equally delightful to learn.

“I think… it was about your scar, wasn’t it? I said something stupid.” Vili snorts, “I remember my father clapping me on the back of the head for it.”

Eivor grins, nodding. “You pointed out my scar, and you said I would make a terrible drengr if I couldn’t see my enemies coming.”

Heat floods Vili’s face, a rising shame that Eivor notices. He seems to study Vili quietly for a moment before releasing his cloak, gently tossing it aside onto the chair nudged into the corner of the room. 

“You proved me wrong.” Vili points out when the silence grows too heavy, nudging Eivor’s shoulder. 

Laughing quietly, Eivor nods, and his attention turns to Vili’s armour. Vili finds a shred of confidence left in the quiet of his mind, and gently grabs Eivor’s wrists before he starts working on the ties. He waits until Eivor is looking at him before he speaks again. “Does that bother you?” He wonders.

“No,” Eivor replies instantly, easily, as if without a thought, “Most people thought I was a bad omen. You just thought I was blind as a bat and twice as stupid. That was an easier thing to correct, in time.”

He’s still half-laughing as he speaks, but there’s an edge to his words - a quiet hurt, long buried, allowed to grow in the half-light of love where it might be safe to show. 

“I never knew that.” Vili frowns. To see Eivor as something strange was one thing, but to call him a bad omen? That doesn’t sit well amongst the memories he keeps of Eivor, still bright and glowing as they day he put them there. But Eivor only smiles defiantly back at him, as though the hurt doesn’t matter.

“It never really mattered. The point is,  _ arse-stick,” _ Eivor pokes Vili in the chest as best as he can with his wrists in Vili’s grip, “I liked you from the moment I met you.”

Vili’s heart stutters in his chest, blooming to life under Eivor’s careful hands. Warmth seeps through him, cracking away the last of the ice that has frozen his thoughts to nothing, and he grins. “Because I insulted you? Tell me more, Wolf-Kissed. I like where this is going.” 

Eivor snorts, rolling his eyes. “You were insufferable just as much as you were a joy to be around. Still are.” Another poke to the chest, but this time Eivor leaves his hand there, letting it rest over the stumbling beat of Vili’s heart. “You pushed me, dared me, challenged me. I gave it back. You never shied away, and we became better for it, I think. We made each other.” 

It’s hard to disagree with that. 

Vili knows he has learned much from Eivor. In the midst of growing fractures running deep within Norway’s disparate clans, Eivor showed him kindness in a world ruled by the sharpest axe, and it taught Vili to appreciate how not all things sharp were made as weapons - a needle can stitch as well as tear. When winter’s gloom enveloped them, Eivor showed him where to look for tracks after fresh snow had covered the best of them; it stopped Vili growing complacent, pushing him always to seek out another way when the path ahead lay hidden. And along the way, Eivor always stopped and pointed out the brightest blooms of summer, or the most vibrant lights of midwinter - it is possible to endure, even in the deepest depths of change. Eivor gave him patience, and planted seeds of wisdom that even now still grow in the shadowed and distant fragments of Vili’s memories. Things that went a long way to easing Hemming’s passing in his mind, and things that Vili couldn’t even begin to piece apart from himself now with how integral they’ve become. 

So he nods, agreeing silently. They knew each other in a way others did not, and in doing so, they became strangers to the world and known only to themselves. Only in their absence did it become apparent just how much they’d pieced each other together, as though they’d carved their shape into the other like the roots and branches of Yggdrasil itself. 

“So,” Eivor continues, voice dropping into an almost hush that Vili has to strain to hear, “Trust me when I tell you that letting you go was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.”

The words hit Vili like ice water to the face, pulling the breath from his lungs, leaving him numb for a brief moment in time where everything is made crystal clear. Vili drops Eivor’s wrists only to cradle Eivor’s face instead, wanting to see those aurora eyes, wanting to say everything he’s been keeping to himself for fear of driving Eivor away - now he’s certain it won’t. 

“Never again, Eivor, I promise you.” Vili tells him, meaning it with every fibre of his being. Not even if Valhalla called him, he would not leave Eivor behind again. He presses his forehead to Eivor’s, feeling Eivor trembling slightly in his hands. “You have me. You have always had me.”

He should let Eivor talk, but Vili’s tired of waiting. 

He leans in, and he kisses Eivor like he’s been meaning to for so long, hurried and stolen as though it waits on a dangerous ledge and Vili has finally decided to taste the fall. 

And it is terrifying. It is years of lying in wait, bound up by time and circumstance, the bonds cut from time to time by impatience and fumbled meetings, only to be wound even stronger and even tighter in each other’s absence. It is the not knowing where to place his hands, how to stand, even how to move again after being bound for so long that he feels it is the only way he knows how to be.

But Eivor is patient, and kind, and soft, and guiding him where he needs to be, the way he’s always done. And just the way he’s always done, he returns Vili’s impatience tenfold, Eivor pushing him for more until Vili feels his back hit the wall. He has to pull away to breathe, reluctantly, like it pains him to even do so, and Eivor lets slip a noise of discontent that lets him know he’s not the only one. Eivor’s hands have slipped to Vili’s neck, fingers curling at the nape and holding him close while his thumbs press along Vili’s bearded chin, holding him there. 

“Stay with me.” Eivor requests, looking up at Vili in a way that leaves him feeling bare. He doesn’t mind it, not if it’s Eivor. Smiling, Vili nods, leaning down to press another kiss to Eivor’s lips. And then another. And another. They turn to simple caresses, teasing and playful as much as they are meaningful, even as Vili peppers them across Eivor’s cheeks and his nose and his brow, until Eivor’s laughing and hiding his face in Vili’s neck to avoid the onslaught. His laughter rumbles through Vili, more so when Vili wraps his arms around Eivor and holds them there almost too tightly, like he’s afraid this will disappear and leave him cold. 

Then, Vili yawns, and he can’t quite pretend he isn’t ready to keel over anymore. Eivor chuckles, dragging knuckles gently along Vili’s back. “I think we deserve some rest.”

Vili finds it hard to say no. He hums an agreement, letting Eivor slip out of his embrace. He’s about to start the arduous job of removing his armour when he feels Eivor working on his other side, nimble fingers able to pluck the ties and undo the knots with ease. Vili just raises an eyebrow, silently questioning why Eivor didn’t just go to bed like he wants to, but the thought that Eivor cares enough to help him in such a mundane task leaves him a little overwhelmed, and he turns back to working on the pieces he can reach. 

Eventually, Vili’s freed from the bulk of leather and metal, and he’s barely had time to kick his boots off before Eivor’s dragging him to the pile of furs and pillows that seems to make up his bed - and Vili can hardly say it doesn’t look inviting right now. He’s only given a moment to appreciate the sight before Eivor shoves him down with a laugh, and he’s leaning above him, his braid tumbling over his shoulder as he stares down at him. Vili lifts a hand to follow the harsh lines of his face, now illuminated by the candlelight instead of cast in shadow. Carefully, he maps the edge of shorn hair where his raven tattoo just peeks onto his temple, then to the scar on his brow which Vili doesn’t remember, and makes a note to ask about later. He drags his thumb across his temple and along his cheekbone, just beneath his eye, bright and curious, then down again to the corner of his mouth. And then Eivor bites, catching Vili off-guard, laughing with Vili’s thumb caught in his teeth. 

“Ow! You utter troll,” Vili wriggles his thumb out of Eivor’s mouth, but any further complaints are silenced as Eivor kisses him this time, slow and certain, resting his elbows either side of Vili’s head as he gently lowers himself to rest flush against him. Vili’s hands tug idly at Eivor’s shirt before he wraps his arms around Eivor instead, too tired to pursue anything tonight, but he has plenty of thoughts to keep him warm. When Eivor pulls away, leaving Vili short of breath, it’s only to explore his scruffy jaw and neck with a distracting combination of lips and teeth until he winds up pressing a kiss to Vili’s collarbone, and then he stops, resting his cheek there instead. 

For all the places Vili has wandered over the years, this is one he never wishes to leave. He lets his eyes slide closed, his breathing evening out slowly as exhaustion seeps in and lulls him closer to sleep. Eivor’s weight on top of him is a pleasant anchor of warmth, and a thought occurs to him in the quiet of their safe harbour.

“Eivor?” Vili murmurs, unsure if Eivor has fallen asleep right where he is. Moments later, he hears a quiet noise, feeling warm breath tickling his skin at his collarbone. “Do you still want to hear me say it?” 

Eivor’s hands card through Vili’s hair as he lifts himself back onto his elbows, gazing down at Vili again, who opens his eyes to look at Eivor. He finds Eivor’s expression unreadable, eyes alight with all the colours that Vili cares to know, and he nods. “Yes.” 

“I love you.” Vili says it plainly, leaving it unadorned with words that would undoubtedly sound better in Eivor’s voice. He watches Eivor carefully, looking for any sign of regret, any hesitation, anything at all. “As my friend, as my drengr, as my heart - in every way that matters.” 

Eivor listens, like he always does. And he waits, like he always does. He takes his turn to explore Vili’s face with feather-light touches, tracing scars and trailing a thumb along Vili’s lower lip, and Vili can only watch, enamoured with the very existence of him. 

Eventually, Eivor smiles. 

“As your friend, I will tell you no lies,” He murmurs almost idly, as if his thoughts are spilling out as they come, “As your drengr, I am the shield upon your back.” 

His fingers lift from Vili’s lips, replaced by Eivor’s own a second later. 

“And if I am your heart,” Eivor whispers against Vili’s lips, barely pulling away, “Then you are mine. Do you accept that?” 

Vili nods without hesitation, arms tightening around Eivor again as he grins into another gentle kiss. He lets it linger, feeling Eivor relax in his hold, and then Vili snags Eivor’s lip between his teeth.

“Ugh-- you brainless oaf--” Eivor mumbles against him, but his complaints eke out into soft laughter as he pulls free, shoving Vili’s face. Vili’s laughter joins Eivor’s own, and everything feels… quiet. At peace. No more hidden storms to weather, or lonely nights to suffer. 

Eivor rolls off Vili then, flopping onto his back beside him. He pulls the furs up, throwing one onto Vili’s face in the process, and then himself. 

“Tired of my face already?” Vili mumbles, yanking the furs away. Eivor grins sleepily at him, offering no further answer as he shuffles closer, legs tangling as they adjust to this new arrangement that isn’t quite new, just… different. 

A better kind of different. 

Eventually, Vili settles with his head on Eivor’s chest, half sprawled over him beneath the warmth of the furs, Eivor running his fingers through Vili’s hair as Vili lies there, listening to his thudding heart, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing lull him finally to sleep. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well we made it guys
> 
> to the end of this fic at least >;3c
> 
> though rest assured there is plenty more coming and i've put together a series for it all - everything posted under Our Fated Share officially exists in the same universe i've built through this fic, vili + eivor have a lot to adjust to back in Ravensthorpe and plenty to explore, including each other, so you'll be able to find it all there. thank you all so, so much for the lovely words and ongoing support you've all shown with this little foray into valhalla's deeeelicious story, and i hope you continue to stick around for the little insights and snapshots into vili and eivor's life in Ravensthorpe! along with... some fun background developments... perhaps
> 
> anyway, enough of me, over to the fic. buckle up friends, don't read it in public unless you're braver than i am

Eivor wakes slowly, dreams made of honey and sticky-sweet, clinging to him as he blinks his eyes open to find thin shafts of sunlight streaming into his room from cracks in the wooden wall. The faint smell of morning dew comes to him, mixing with the earthy scent of the herbs on the shelf above him. Breathing in deeply, he notices his left arm is almost entirely numb save for the tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers, and then he notices the heavy weight on his chest. Vili lies there still, a mess of dark hair ruffled from sleep, his eyes closed, thick and dark lashes fluttering against Eivor’s chest where his cheek is resting. He just hopes the sudden pounding of his heart doesn’t wake Vili then, because the sight of him has breathed new life into his body, still aching from the days of battle and travel behind them. 

Rather than disturbing Vili, Eivor just lies there watching him idly, fingers drifting along the arm Vili has wrapped around his chest. It’s pressing a little on some bruises, but Eivor can’t quite find it in himself to care, and he can see Vili’s own skin is starting to bloom in purple and yellow scattered over his ribs. Eivor takes care to avoid them in his mindless explorations, his hand now drifting along every ridge and curve of muscle lining Vili’s broad back. He must have gotten warm in the night, Eivor thinks, noticing the familiar red of Vili’s tunic crumpled up in the corner of the room. That’s not surprising. Vili runs hot, in blood and in temper, and Eivor has always enjoyed it in the most selfish of ways. He smiles to himself, recalling brief memories of all the times Vili had gotten them into trouble and how he would always get them out, fumbling the entire way and loudly protesting his innocence, even when Trygve was marching the both of them back to Hemming’s hall with a face like thunder. 

Drawing a gentle line along the curve of Vili’s cheekbone, Eivor suppresses a laugh. That temper made him a fearless drengr, but an absolutely terrible liar. He’d known in Snotinghamscire, lying cold with his thoughts in Odin’s Hovel, staring at Vili’s back with the weight of selfish choices pressing down on him. He’d known his talk of flickering flames and momentary passions would sting, he’d seen the tension held in Vili’s shoulders as he spoke, the way his eyes grew dim and cloudy and not with grief. It was something colder - disappointment. But he’d forced a smile on his face and agreed, ‘just this once’, and left before Eivor could point out the lie.

And in some strange and twisted way, that lie they held onto made the truth even sweeter when it was revealed. Eivor keeps turning Vili’s words from last night over in his mind, and the way he’d looked at him - so simply, so adoringly, without a glimmer of expectation or demand. That is a rare thing to find when your hands are holding fated threads, and yet, Vili holds Eivor’s hands in his with no regard for consequence. Such a small thing, and for Eivor it means the world. 

Eivor’s thoughts are dashed away by a soft hum, warm air blowing across his chest where Vili is. Vili murmurs something, too muddied by sleep to understand, but Eivor feels the tension returning to Vili’s muscles as he stretches slightly, nuzzling his face into his makeshift pillow. The scratch of beard over skin makes Eivor squirm, and his tender touches turn to a sharp poke to the side of Vili’s head. Vili grumbles in response, his arm tightening around Eivor. He was never an early riser, Eivor recalls. But he would have to make do with a cold bed if he intends on indulging that habit here - Eivor has too much to do to lie here all day, as much as he would love to lock the world out and exist in this quiet little place with Vili for eternity. 

“Hey. Good morning.” Eivor pokes, to little response. _“Hey._ Are you listening? You giant lump of lard.” 

Vili rumbles a sleepy laugh. “Keep talking, you’re about as comfortable as the floor.” 

Eivor grins, his pokes slowing, fingers turning instead to card through Vili’s hair before suddenly gripping and tilting Vili’s head so he can see him. “I can introduce you to the floor if you prefer.” 

Even sleepy as he is, Vili’s eyes are bright with mischief and something else that Eivor isn’t sure he can name. He smiles goofily up at Eivor, rubbing his face against his chest again. Eivor squirms again, the scratchy beard playing havoc with his sensitive skin. “Stop it!” He tries to force some semblance of demand into his words, but they tumble out as a laugh and Vili is only further encouraged, replacing his stupid scratches with kisses instead to Eivor’s chest, slowly raising himself up to loom over Eivor. Letting go of his hair, Eivor’s hand drops to curl around Vili’s bicep - taking care to avoid the just about healing wound he picked up at Uffentune - eyebrow raised as he tries to see what Vili plans on doing next.

“I ache,” Vili mumbles after a moment of quiet contemplation, looking down at Eivor, “And not in a good way.”

Eivor grimaces, sympathising. “I can see. You have taken a few hits.” He very lightly brushes his fingers over some of the bruises he can see forming along the indents of Vili’s ribs, the irregular pattern betraying the many breaks and fractures he’s suffered over the years.

“So have you.” Vili murmurs, attention caught by something. Eivor frowns, about to ask, but Vili leans down and brushes his lips over Eivor’s shoulder, and he feels the sudden pressure there, a tell-tale tension of the skin where a heavy bruise sits. Eivor sighs tiredly, rolling his shoulders as he feels the stiffness settling in - a mark of too much time spent on the river-roads and in battle lately. He feels worn thin, as though a layer of grime has just scraped away the skin and left him a fragile skeleton. It’s deeply uncomfortable, and only gets worse the longer he thinks about it. 

“We would feel better for a visit to the spring.” Eivor suggests, looking up at Vili. He watches as Vili sits back, straddling Eivor now, stretching his arms up with a quiet noise of satisfaction. Eivor doesn’t hide that he’s staring, watching how his muscles grow taut and visible as skin pulls tight over them, warping scars and bruises in the process. Vili lowers his arms, stopping to rub sleep from his eyes before he rests his hands on his thighs, casually sitting there like it isn’t making Eivor have second thoughts about leaving this room.

“That sounds like it will be cold.” Vili says after a short moment of contemplation. 

“Alright, you can stay here smelling like a wet dog if you like.” Eivor challenges with a half grin, sitting up and shoving Vili off his lap roughly, sending him onto his back onto the furs and pillows of the bed. He hears his laughter, still sleepy and thick as Eivor reaches for boots and a belt for his tunic. 

“I will come, you might need rescuing from a wayward branch. Is it quiet?” Vili asks from behind him. Eivor turns, fastening his belt as he looks at Vili, still sprawled on his back and half buried in furs. He tilts his head, thinking.

“I do not see many go there - most prefer the river. That, or they don’t like the eels.” Eivor says, crossing the room to pluck Vili’s tunic from the floor, turning to chuck it at him. It catches him in the face where he lies on the bed, and Eivor snorts, hearing Vili’s sigh. 

“You want your belts?” Eivor asks, staring at the mess of leather straps they’d had to get Vili out of last night, lying in a mess on the chair. 

“Gods, no, just one.” Vili’s reply is muffled, but Eivor catches it well enough and plucks the simplest belt from the pile, going over to drop it by him before he turns towards the door to his room. He has no idea of the time - not enough sunlight filters through the cracks for Eivor to gauge it well enough in here, at least not with the doors shut. He can’t imagine the hall will be busy today, but just in case, he presses an ear to the doors and listens. He can just about hear the crackling of the hearth, but no heavy footsteps or voices pass through, and Eivor thanks the gods that he won’t have to navigate Sigurd’s braying this morning. 

“What are you doing?” Vili’s voice is right in his ear, almost making Eivor shiver. 

He elbows Vili gently behind him. “Do you want to deal with Sigurd right now? He is probably waiting to hound us the entire way out of here.” 

Vili’s laugh is a dangerous sound in that moment, one that Eivor knows all too well, but he can’t do anything before Vili has him pinned to the doors with his body, the collision rattling the solid wood as Vili slams his fist against it and lets out the most obscene moan, almost right into Eivor’s ear again. “Let him hear us, he won’t ask twice.” Vili whispers, shoving Eivor against the door again, but this time his laughter takes over instead of another noise that Eivor is glad he doesn’t make, because he would have taken Vili right back to bed if he did.

“You are a fucking _bacraut.”_ Eivor mumbles with his face against the door until Vili pushes off him, and he can’t help his own laughter. His face is burning, but he hasn’t laughed so freely in a long time, and it feels good. It feels right. Vili smiles back at him when Eivor glances over his shoulder, trying to fix him with a look of disdain which he knows is not even close to what he intends. He shakes his head, and pulls open the doors finally. 

It is quiet in the hall, as Eivor suspected. The fire roars away with fresh logs crackling and spitting, and a few platters piled with nuts and berries and a few pears are set on the tables. Not enough bread for a full _dagmal,_ but Eivor supposes they aren’t restricted by such limitations at home, and he grabs a pear for himself along with a handful of berries. He sneaks a glance up towards the throne and the map room, which both lie empty. Perhaps Randvi is still taking her time at Ubba’s side, Eivor wonders, and there’s no sign of Sigurd at all. 

“Feels rather important, walking straight into the hall from your room.” Vili muses idly, crunching on a few hazelnuts he’s picked for himself. Eivor just snorts, chewing through berries as he starts to lead Vili towards the far end of the hall, to the doors that lead out towards western side of Ravensthorpe. Mouse briefly pads alongside them, and Eivor has to hastily explain the wolf’s presence in the settlement to Vili before he goes running for his axes. Vili still seems unconvinced, but he lets Mouse sniff his fingers and steal a lick before she pads off back to her spot in the sun, now slowly climbing through the sky on its morning voyage. They walk lazily towards the spring, passing Valka’s hut where they see Ivarr sitting outside on a bench, lost in his own thoughts. He looks up at the sound of footsteps and quiet chatter, and Eivor chucks the finished pear core aside, looking at Ivarr.

“Running away to steal a rut before someone demands your arse on the throne?” Ivarr leans back against the fence surrounding Valka’s hut, his arms folding across his chest as he regards the two of them with a shrewd glare. The dragon ink on his head is impressively dominating, almost removing the last few traces of human expression from his face save for the twitch of his eye and curve of a smile that isn’t quite sincere. 

“Yes.” Vili responds before Eivor can, and Eivor just sighs. It seems he’s in this sort of mood today. Ivarr barks out a laugh, the sound not quite as grating as it used to be. Eivor would almost call it soft, but even thinking those words makes him feel as though Ivarr would sink a dagger through his eye. He shoves Vili on his way, not intending on stopping for long.

“Have you rested?” Eivor asks warily, noticing now in the light that Ivarr’s eyes are sunken and ringed with dark circles. Ivarr’s smile freezes, eyes flicking between Eivor and Vili, narrowing. He doesn’t answer, but Eivor doesn’t really need him to.

“Your lookout tower still stands up the hill, sturdy as it was when it was made - we borrowed it for a time when we arrived. Good place for a nap when nobody’s looking.” Eivor shrugs, turning away to follow after Vili. He doesn’t press the idea, but his ears catch the slight distortion of words and a drawn out sigh from Ivarr’s direction, followed by heavy, uneven footsteps leading away. 

From here, the pool is a stone’s throw away. Eivor slips past Vili to lead him to the quietest spot, hidden around the curve of rock and grass, spring blooms beginning to flower and the grasses growing greener as winter fades quickly beneath England’s gentle skies.

A stone skips across the water. Eivor turns to find Vili standing on the shore, eyeing it carefully, grinning to himself when the stone reaches five skips before it sinks. “I haven’t lost my talents.” 

“No, just your brains.” Eivor responds, ridding himself of his belt and his shirt and boots, but warm hands find his waist and stop him in his tracks as he’s pulled suddenly into Vili, barely catching himself. Undeterred, Eivor just chuckles and begins working on Vili’s belt instead, letting it fall to the ground as he slides his fingers beneath Vili’s tunic, rucking up his shirt until it hits his chest and Vili doesn’t lift his arms to help. Eivor huffs, staring up at him. “Really?”

Vili grins back, entirely unbothered. He drops his fingers from Eivor’s waist to slip into the waistband of his breeches, and he tugs, slowly. “More interested in getting rid of this.” 

Eivor lifts his brow, lips twitching with a barely contained smile. “Are you going to deny me at every turn?”

Vili pulls his waistband even lower, and the pressure sets a few of Eivor’s nerves alight, a subtle pleasure blooming upwards. Vili looks contemplative, ocean deep eyes shadowed by dark lashes, hiding Vili’s intentions from Eivor, until he lets out a soft hum, smiling. “What was it you said? That we should keep our jarl honest in the days to come…” 

Eivor narrows his eyes at Vili. He shoves him backwards, and kicks his breeches off the rest of the way, looking at Vili with a clear challenge in his gaze. Vili isn’t deterred, even as Eivor chucks the rolled up fabric at him - he just bats it aside and grabs Eivor around the waist again, leaning in like he’s about to kiss him, but he stops just short. “Is the water deep?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Eivor considers the question. Perhaps not well enough. “It comes up to my chest, in parts.”

“Knee-deep, then.” Vili says, sounding far too delighted, and then Eivor feels himself being picked from the ground like he weighs nothing at all. He scrambles wildly for something to grab onto, already protesting, but there is nothing except Vili’s strong arms holding him for the shortest moment before he’s flying through the air, and then he hits the water. 

The water isn’t _cold,_ but it is still caught in the shadow of the morning and Eivor feels it as he resurfaces, turning to glare at Vili standing there laughing on the bank. He can’t be angry, the sight is ridiculous, and heart-warming, and it quickly chases away the chill clinging to Eivor’s skin as he watches Vili turn his attention to his own clothes. He watches just as Vili has watched him, unabashedly enjoying the show until Vili wades into the water after him, shaking his arms as the chill hits him. “Whoo! That-- this is _cold,_ Eivor--” He shudders, and Eivor just rolls his eyes. 

“Get in.”

The water lapping at skin is a soothing balm for the aches and pains that are stitched into his body, and Eivor relaxes against the chill that slowly slips away, cupping his hands and bringing water to his face, waking himself up slowly and surely. He hears splashing behind him and smiles, imagining Vili’s less graceful method of dunking himself entirely into the water, and then warm hands are on his back. Vili’s touches are gentle, almost reverent in the way they trace lines along his spine in what Eivor imagines is a reflection of the ink Vili finds there. His fingers stop at points along his back where all feeling momentarily disappears, and Eivor realizes he is also carefully tracing the scars that litter his skin. Too many to count by now. 

“I wouldn’t bother,” Eivor turns his head to glance at Vili over his shoulder, shooting him a crooked smile, “I do not remember you being able to count that high anyway.” 

Vili’s touches turn to a solid poke in the ribs, making Eivor squirm and stumble to get away. But where Eivor is faster and more nimble on land, Vili is stronger, and water does not slow him as much as it does Eivor. He has no problem closing the distance, dragging his arms through the water to splash Eivor with a great wave before he shoves him in entirely. The cold water leaves Eivor gasping as the breath is stolen from his lungs, but Eivor grabs Vili’s arm before he goes under, and delivers a slow and heavy kick to the back of Vili’s knees under the water, enough to buckle him. After that, it is a messy tangle of splashing and shouting, hands sliding over places they wouldn’t dare to before, fingers digging in and teasing, testing the patience of the other, until thinly veiled insults are silenced by hungry kisses that taste of spring water and laughter instead of mead and smoke and lingering iron. 

“Where does this cave lead?” Vili mumbles against Eivor’s mouth. Eivor pulls away to look behind him, the waterfall obscuring the cave mouth in an endless torrent. It is empty within, Eivor knows from his own explorations, and leads nowhere. But it is a quiet, secluded spot that sees very few visitors - even Valka doesn’t venture beyond the falls. Smiling, Eivor turns back to Vili.

“Do you want to find out?” He asks, voice dropping subtly into something more playful, and he starts walking backwards, beckoning for Vili to follow. Vili doesn’t need asking twice. He strides through the water, grabbing onto Eivor’s outstretched hand with a grin, and follows him beneath the waterfall. 

There is a chill in the air inside the cave, tucked away entirely from the sunlight. The only light in here is the refracted daylight shimmering from the veins of ore and crystals embedded in the rock wall, but it is a strangely beautiful sight as they glitter amidst the gloom, casting dappled light over them as they enter. Eivor admires the way it hits Vili’s skin, occasionally drifting across his eyes and highlighting that deep blue gaze, which is blown wide and waiting as he stares at Eivor in a way that heats his body to the core. Eivor licks his lips, catching another taste of the freshwater that trails down his face from his temples, hair plastered to his skin. The rush of the falls is a gentle and echoing sigh in the cavern, instead of the muted roar it appears to be outside, and everything seems suddenly far away and out of reach except for Vili.

So Eivor reaches for him. He finds warm skin, hands sliding as they try to grip onto wet shoulders, broad and strong, he can feel the shift of muscle as Vili’s hands find his waist beneath the water, guiding Eivor back until his body is trapped between smooth, cold rock and Vili’s warmth. He shudders as Vili captures his lips in a slow kiss, his hands running along Eivor’s sides until they emerge from the water, fingers trailing up slowly over Eivor’s chest, letting water trail down in his wake. Eivor’s breath seizes for a moment at the sensation, the feather light touches and the almost ticklish trail of droplets combined with Vili’s fervent kisses don’t leave him enough room to think, and a soft moan slips out when Vili’s hands slide into his hair, tugging gently. Eivor grabs uselessly at Vili’s back, fingers unable to find purchase anywhere, even as he digs in harder and harder. He settles for grabbing onto Vili’s hips, pulling him closer as he rolls against him, the sudden friction making Vili gasp, pulling away from Eivor’s lips. Eivor smirks up at him, feeling the hardness pressing into his thigh and knowing Vili must feel his own, and he waits to see what Vili will do. 

“Now who is the _impatient_ one?” Vili half says, half growls, a hand in Eivor’s hair now tugging, forcing Eivor to bare his neck. Vili turns his attention to the flushed skin there, and Eivor feels a rush of pleasure shoot through him when Vili’s teeth drag along the tendons, testing, not quite biting yet. 

“I think I have waited long enough, you arse.” Eivor responds, his hands sliding past Vili’s hips to his ass, squeezing almost a little too tightly, making Vili’s warnings turn quickly into a bite, his teeth marking Eivor’s neck painfully as a reward. Eivor grits his teeth, trying not to let his pleasure sound, not wanting to give Vili the satisfaction, but he fails entirely as Vili rolls his hips into him, hard. 

And he does it again. 

And again. Noises spill from Eivor’s lips unbidden, and Vili seems all too eager to drink them up, lips crashing into Eivor’s again, rocking into him with insistence now. Every time, it sends another jolt through Eivor, his nerves alight and tingling, the cold stone at his back only serving to make every other sensation even more than it is. 

“Wait, wait—” Eivor’s words are pitifully reluctant. He’d be content with stealing another rut in another shadowed place, just another moment of them untangling their frustrations and leaving things unsaid and undone, but they have moved past that now. Vili leans back, concern flashing in his dark eyes. Eivor just looks over him for a moment, unable to tell what is spring water and what is sweat clinging to his forehead, eyeing the way his kiss swollen lips are parted and his breaths come in short, quiet little gasps. Eivor swallows thickly, mouth curving with a smile that turns dangerous as he slips a hand between them, wrapping around himself and Vili beneath the water. He watches as Vili’s eyes flutter close, breath stuttering. Vili’s hands come to rest on Eivor’s shoulders like he’s trying to balance himself, and Eivor strokes the both of them in one fluid movement, watching intently. Vili lets out a moan, head falling back slightly. Eivor’s eyes trace the straining muscles, the harsh edge of his adam’s apple bobbing with every sound and swallow, and Eivor can’t resist the sight any longer. He lets go of their lengths momentarily pressed together, and shoves Vili back. Vili’s gaze snaps back to Eivor, suddenly cast adrift without explanation and left wanting until Eivor points out the small ledge jutting out from the cave wall, creating a natural border for the pool. 

“Sit.” Eivor’s demand echoes in the cave beneath the thunder of the falls. Vili nods jerkily, laughing breathlessly as he pulls himself over to the ledge and then up onto it, sitting with his legs still in the water. Eivor watches greedily as he follows in his wake, eyeing the way water droplets roll down his chest and get caught in the dark hair that trails down, but his view is suddenly obstructed by Vili’s arm, his hand wrapped around himself. Eivor pushes himself over, batting Vili’s hand away with a growl. 

“That’s mine, you fucking troll.” Eivor warns him, his hands now holding each of Vili’s wrists to the cold rock, keeping him there. He hears Vili laugh above him, but Eivor is only eyeing his prize, nudging Vili’s knees apart so he can slip in and claim him. He takes him in his mouth, as much of him as he can, tasting him and feeling him, tongue going to work on the sensitive flesh and veins that line Vili’s cock, even as Vili swears and fights against Eivor’s iron grip on his wrists. Eivor dares to take him deeper, until he hits the back of his throat and his eyes begin to water, but the strange burn of almost asphyxiation wrapped around the sweet symphony of noises spilling from Vili’s mouth is too good to ignore. And then he pulls off of him entirely. Vili _whines._ Eivor licks his lips, half laughing as he lets himself breathe fully, blinking away the sting in his eyes. He watches as Vili’s chest heaves with heavy breaths, his scars catching droplets of water that trace the same patterns as Eivor’s eyes do before they fall. He wonders how many he has to learn. 

But that will have to be later. Eivor sees Vili’s gaze on him, silently demanding, and he’s only too happy to comply. He ducks back down, taking Vili in his mouth again, working up a slow and easy rhythm until Vili starts bucking up into him, throwing him off. Eivor lets go of one of Vili’s wrists, instead clamping his hand down on Vili’s thigh and squeezing hard. He hears Vili’s breath hitch again, a harsh sigh slipping into a groan, and then Vili’s hand is tangled in Eivor’s hair, guiding him, setting the pace for his own pleasure, and Eivor lets him. Slowly, Vili’s pace starts to turn erratic and Eivor can feel him tensing, so he lets him slip out almost entirely, just teasing the head with his tongue and tasting him again, eyes flicking up to see Vili, head tilted back, eyes closed, a blush blooming across his chest as he spills out delightful noises that go straight to Eivor’s core. He slowly unfurls his fingers from around Vili’s wrist, but Vili’s fingers catch on his before he can pull his hand away, and he links them together. Vili has a knuckle white grip, trembling slightly, and Eivor knows he is close. He slides the hand up from Vili’s thigh and onto his stomach which is taut with tension, and gently caresses him, a quiet request to relax, before he brings that hand further down to the base of Vili’s cock and wraps around it firmly, just as he takes the rest of him in his mouth. He is drowned out in Vili’s sudden cries, his fingernails digging into Eivor’s scalp, his hand holding onto Eivor’s hard enough to leave angry half moons all over the back of it. Eivor lets Vili fuck his mouth as he chases his release, spilling thick and fast, until Eivor is filled by the taste of him and Vili is left gasping, sitting slack against the wall of the cave, Eivor’s name a sudden prayer falling from his lips in jumbled syllables.

Eivor pulls off of him again, slowly, taking every last drop. He swallows, the taste not entirely unpleasant, but he wants to remember, and he lets out a breathy laugh of satisfaction as he presses kisses to the inside of Vili’s thighs, slowly making his way up until he’s pulled himself out of the pool, straddling Vili’s lap, pressing kisses to the sweat slicked stretch of Vili’s throat, Vili still resting his head against the wall as he trembles through his aftershocks. 

“You,” Vili pants, regarding Eivor through half-lidded eyes, “You’ve been holding out on me, raven-brains.”

Eivor chuckles, sitting up to meet Vili’s gaze. “You just finally had the patience to shut up and let me do something.” 

Vili grins, utterly relaxing under Eivor, and Eivor thinks he could drink in the sight of him for eternity; the flushed skin and curve of muscle, the damp hair sticking up like a raven’s nest, the brightness to his eyes that seems to grow with every time he looks at Eivor like he’s the one who put it there. But Vili is pulling him in too soon, his lips soft and pliant and no longer demanding in the wake of his release, but Eivor has no intention of doing all the work. He rolls his hips, a pointed reminder that he is still hard and waiting, and Vili lazily drags his fingers over Eivor’s hips to his inner thighs, tracing nonsensical patterns until Eivor growls into him, teeth tugging at Vili’s lips in warning. 

“And I think it’s my turn, arse-stick.” Eivor breathes a moment later at Vili’s ear, arms wrapped around his shoulders, struggling to get a grip as he feels his entire body jolt, Vili now stroking him lazily between the closeness of their bodies. Eivor explores Vili’s skin with open-mouthed kisses, tasting salt and sweat now with the sweet spring water. He begins at Vili’s neck, feeling the thrum of life beneath his lips as he makes his way down, licking and sucking and trying to recall the places that Vili reacts to, and he finds his mark at the curve of Vili’s neck where it meets his broad shoulder. He hears Vili let out a contented sigh, and Eivor bites down, hard. Vili’s hand tightens around Eivor’s cock, stroking him faster suddenly, rougher, and Eivor’s groan is muffled by Vili’s shoulder. Eivor pulls away, both to admire his mark and to brace himself against Vili, the rolling waves of pleasure beginning to lick at every nerve, pulling them tighter and tighter. Vili slows his strokes to a painful degree, thumb brushing the underside and dragging up over Eivor’s slit, dragging a moan from his lips. Eivor’s fingers dig into Vili’s shoulders, and he can’t help himself from bucking into Vili’s hand, demanding more, but Vili pulls away entirely. 

“Fuck, Vili,” Eivor glares at him, forcing out a breath, “Do you _insist_ on making this difficult for me?”

Vili laughs, low and dark, the sound melting right into Eivor as Vili’s hands settle on Eivor’s thighs, running them up and down and squeezing, taking his time to look over Eivor. 

“I am just enjoying the sight of you.” Vili replies a moment later, glancing up at Eivor from under dark lashes. But his expression changes in an instant, eyes growing dark and dangerous, smile curving into a wicked line. He taps Eivor’s hips, “Stand up.”

Eivor obeys, using Vili’s shoulders to hoist himself up. He barely has time to steady himself before he feels Vili’s hands back on his hips, and then teeth dragging along his thigh, hot and messy kisses pressed along the line of muscle that now stands out with Eivor looming over Vili. Eivor swallows, bracing himself against the rock wall as he watches Vili, catching sight of ocean dark eyes flickering up to meet him right before he takes Eivor in his mouth. Eivor’s nerves are already alight, and it takes everything not to just come undone right there and then, the wet heat surrounding him suddenly overwhelming and not enough all at once. Vili’s tongue sits flush along the underside of his cock, and he sucks languidly, slowly, deliberately taking his time. That won’t do. Eivor reaches down, running fingers through Vili’s hair gently before grabbing him, maybe a little too tightly, and holding his head against the wall. 

“Can I?” Eivor’s request is barely a whisper, and he rests his head against the forearm braced on the wall while he looks down at Vili, waiting for a response. Vili hums around him and then looks up, Eivor’s cock still in his mouth, face flushed, eyes bright. The sight is enough to pull another soft groan from Eivor, and then Vili’s fingers press into his hips, silently encouraging him. Eivor begins moving, slowly, not wanting to push Vili too far, but this feels too good to pass up. Vili is so warm and willing to please, and he moans slightly around Eivor as his thrusts grow more intentional, a little harder, a little faster. Eivor keeps Vili held against the wall with one hand, and then adjusts his position with the other, hand splayed against the rock wall to keep him steady while he fucks Vili’s mouth in a heathen display. 

Between the slow ministrations of Vili’s tongue and his willingness to accommodate Eivor’s greed, fingers digging into Eivor’s hips hard enough to bruise, and the chill air of the cave clinging to wet skin combined with the burning blood racing through every part of Eivor, it’s hard to hold on to his fraying senses. His thrusts turn jerky, uneven, his hand frantically groping and slipping through Vili’s wet hair while he focuses too much on keeping himself standing as his release pushes him towards the brink, his body growing tenser than a bowstring as his mind empties almost entirely except for thoughts of chasing that singular need.

“Vili…” Eivor moans brokenly, muscles twitching with the effort of keeping his thrusts from choking Vili. Vili only presses harder, encouraging him, and he takes him as deep as he can in one sudden movement that rips Eivor’s nerves asunder in a blinding flash of white that bleeds over his vision, his body lost to that momentary pleasure entirely. He’s barely aware that words are tumbling from his mouth as he spills over Vili and collapses onto his arms against the rock wall, holding himself there as Vili eases off of him, his hands gently running along Eivor’s trembling thighs, pressing feather light kisses to the sharp edge of his hips where it meets his stomach. 

Slowly, Eivor gathers enough of his senses back to push himself off the wall with a contented laugh, kneeling back down to be face to face with Vili so he can press a kiss to his lips, tasting himself on Vili. It’s strange, but Eivor can’t help the glimmer of satisfaction that he feels that Vili has taken as much as he’d given. 

Vili pulls away the smallest amount, enough to suck in a breath, laughing, hands cradling Eivor’s face gently. “If this is what your idea of a morning bath is, I do not think I mind getting up for it.” 

Eivor grins, pressing a short, sweet kiss to Vili’s mouth before he eases himself back into the water, the chill beginning to bite again. “You still smell like a wet dog, arse-stick. Get back in.”

Still laughing, Vili slips in after Eivor. 

Taking care of each other is an easy way to spend the morning, Eivor finds. There is a quiet in the way he can clean the shadows of dust and lingering specks of blood from Vili’s skin, idly checking him over for any wounds that look unhealthy or bruises too dark to simply be skin-deep. He finds nothing other than the purple-yellow blooming across Vili’s ribs and a few indents where a stray arrow has gouged him or a shield has splintered and pierced him. Things that will heal quickly. Things that Eivor has no doubt are marked in his own body in an odd mirror, stitched into place by the fated thread they share. It is a notion that has begun to settle in Eivor’s mind, like a taut rope growing slack as he stops fighting the binds - he will always wonder if fate might be undone, but he refuses to spend his saga undoing the tapestry he has woven. Eivor runs a finger along the slight freckles adorning Vili’s back, and between the two of them he knows he has woven a better fate that any other he could have given himself, regardless of whether it lasts for a day, for a turning of the seasons, or for the rest of their lives. He finds peace in that. In him. 

Vili glances over his shoulder, brow lifted in question. “What are you drawing?”

“Nothing,” Eivor answers quietly, “Did you know you have freckles here?”

Huffing, Vili rolls his shoulders, turning to face Eivor with a bemused expression. He lifts his hands from the water and cradles Eivor’s face, scattering droplets into his beard and down his neck, making Eivor grimace. 

“I have known you for what feels like a lifetime and still, you surprise me.” Vili tells him, sunlight now beginning to reflect off the water through the trees, catching his skin in scattered light. “First, by showing up on my doorstep ten years after I last saw you, with no word of warning--”

“That one is your father’s doing, might I remind you--”

“You came because _you thought_ I wrote you a letter. Do you know how much I wish I had?” Vili interrupts Eivor’s own interruption, both of them speaking in half words, half laughter, but Eivor’s fades when he hears that admission. It isn’t surprising in the wake of what Vili’s told him, but… it is still a pleasant thing to hear.

“Then you arrived, and seeing you was like…” Vili trails off, gaze drifting away as he tries to think of the right words, “It was like you brought home to me. I was terrified, I knew my father was sick, I knew… Trygve did not let me hide from it, even if he let me slip away when he knew I was tired of hearing the same old thing. I was convinced I would end up in jarldom and servitude, and I would have done it, but…”

“You would not have been happy.” Eivor rests his hands at Vili’s sides, careful not to touch the bruising. 

Vili shakes his head, returning his gaze to Eivor. “I would not. And you were right, I’d lost sight of the people who’d loved me most.” He smiles, a little sadly, releasing Eivor’s face to knock his chin gently. 

“I think you’ve thanked me well enough today.” Eivor returns his own smile, something that he hopes is brighter. Vili hums in thought, pressing closer to Eivor, his arms draping over Eivor’s shoulders to send water droplets trailing down Eivor’s back.   
  
“I think I forgot something.” Vili says quietly, lips brushing Eivor’s, “Just one more thing.” He kisses Eivor softly, not pushing, not demanding, simply expressing something his words won’t say. And Eivor accepts it gladly, knowing exactly what he means. Vili doesn’t let it linger, lifting his lips from Eivor’s only to fix him with the same bemused look from earlier.

“Do I really have freckles there?” 

Eivor nods. “You do. On your arse, too. Endearing, really, it’s like the name was meant for you, _arse-stick.”_

He gets dunked solidly back into the water after that.

By the time they manage to tear themselves away from each other and out of the water, the sun has climbed almost to its highest point in the sky, and Ravensthorpe is bright with spring light. 


End file.
